A. E. Housman: 'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town

'Tis time, I think by Wenlock town  The golden broom should blow; The hawthorn sprinkled up and down  Should charge the land with snow.
Spring will not wait the loiterer's time  Who keeps so long away; So others wear the broom and climb  The hedgerows heaped with may.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,  Gold that I never see; Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge  That will not shower on me.