The Cotswold Farmers

Sometimes the ghosts forgotten go     Along the hill-top way,     And with long scythes of silver mow     Meadows of moonlit hay,     Until the cocks of Cotswold crow     The coming of the day.     There's Tony Turkletob who died     When he could drink no more,     And Uncle Heritage, the pride     Of eighteen-twenty-four,     And Ebenezer Barleytide,     And others half a score.     They fold in phantom pens, and plough     Furrows without a share,     And one will milk a faery cow,     And one will stare and stare,     And whistle ghostly tunes that now     Are not sung anywhere.     The moon goes down on Oakridge lea,     The other world's astir,     The Cotswold Farmers silently     Go back to sepulchre,     The sleeping watchdogs wake, and see     No ghostly harvester.