A Shropshire Lad - XXXIX

    'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town
    The golden broom should blow;
    The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
    Should charge the land with snow.

    Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
    Who keeps so long away;
    So others wear the broom and climb
    The hedgerows heaped with may.

    Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
    Gold that I never see;
    Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
    That will not shower on me.