The heath of hampstead is red,
my labours are done with;
and over me arises,
as quick as night,
The moans of secretive dusk.
A hymn to winter tides!
the voices from afar come back,
From a messenger sky deep and black,
On highbury fields of days long dead,
grass cut short.
and corn merely memory
The songs they sang
'far into the lucrative night,
upon highbury fields far into the night,
And my fair one stood upon the grass
but for heaven now no more,
dying her memory in the dark and below.
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