Between the barren pasture and the wood<br>There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass,<br>Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood,<br>And human fate brought tragic things to pass.<br>A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass,<br>It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime,<br>Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time.<br><br>Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook,<br>But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring,<br>Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook<br>Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing,<br>On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing<br>Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires,<br>Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.