And sometimes I am sorry when the grass br Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows br And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass br That I am not the voice of country fellows br Who now are standing by some headland talking br Of turnips and potatoes or young corn br Of turf banks stripped for victory. br Here Peace is still hawking br His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn. br br Upon a headland by a whinny hedge br A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow br There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge br And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.