Explore "On the Downs" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The little moon is dead, / Drowned in the flood of rain / That drips from roof of byre and shed, / And splashes in the lane: / The leafless lean-flanked lane where last year's leaves are spread.
The sheep cower in the fold, / Where the rain beats them blind, / Where scarce the rotten hurdles hold / Against the weary wind / That moans with angry tears across the pathless wold.
Dim lights across the down / Show where the lone farms lie, / The twisted trees have lost their brown, / Are black against the sky, / And far below blink lights, gay lights of Brighton town.
Ah, was the moon once bright? / And did the thyme smell sweet / Where, between dewy dusk and light, / The warm turf felt our feet, / And bean-flowers scented all the enchanted summer night?
Did sheep-bells tinkle clear / Across the golden haze? / Were the woods ever leafy-dear, / In those forgotten days? / The wet wind shrieks denial: no other voice speaks here.