Linden Lea

Within the woodlands, flow’ry gladed,

By the oak trees’ mossy moot,

The shining grass blades, timber shaded,

Now do quiver underfoot;

And birds do whistle overhead,

And water’s bubbling in its bed;

And there for me, the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

✿

When leaves, that lately were a-springing,

Now do fade within the copse,

And painted birds do hush their singing,

Up upon the timber tops;

And brown leaved fruit’s a-turning red,

In cloudless sunshine overhead,

With fruit for me, the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

☁︎

Let other folk make money faster

In the air of dark-room’d towns;

I don’t dread a peevish master,

Though no man may heed my frowns.

I be free to go abroad,

Or take again my homeward road

To where, for me, the apple tree

Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Charʕ•ᴥ•ʔ