Yes, I remember the poet’s train
That pulled up one afternoon,
And waited by my bare platform
Unwontedly. Was it late June ?
I had been whitless-still in fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky,
Listening to a blackbird sing
Of meadowsweet and haycocks dry,
When the express-train drew up there.
No-one left and no-one came.
The only thing they even saw
Were platform boards which bore my name.
And then they went, and took their noise,
Their hissing steam and flashing brass,
And left me once again in peace
With willow, willow-herb and grass.