West Country Song

Sun came up, bigger than all my sorrow;
Lark in air so high, and his song clean through me. 
Now comes night, hushing the lark in's furrow, 
   And the rain falls fine.
What have I done with what was dearest to me?

Thatch and wick, fagot, and tea on trivet,— 
These and more it was; it was all my cheer. 
Now comes night, smelling of box and privet, 
   And the rain falls fine.
Have I left it out in the rain?—It is not here.