WE wandered down the meadow way-- br The path beside the hedge is shady,-- br You did not see the silver may, br You talked of Art, my sweet blind Lady. br br br You talked of values and of tone, br Of square touch and New English crazes; br Could you not see we were alone, br Where God's hand paints the world with daisies? br br br You spoke of Paris and of Rome br And in the hedgerow's thorny shadows br A white-throat sang a song of home, br Of English lanes and English meadows. br br br You talked about the aims of Art br And how all Art must needs be moral; br I heard you with a sinking heart br And watched the waving crimson sorrel.