A Cottager

The rafters blacken year by year,

And the roof beams under that once were green.

T'was himself that cut them and brought them here,

But who has count of the years between?

And Autumn comes, and its withering,

And Spring again and the fields are green.

Winter and Summer and Autumn and Spring,

Yet who has count of the years between?

The big old clock by the window screen

Keeps count of the hours both day and night.

I mind the time when its face was white,

But who has count of the years between?