Digging

TO-DAY I think Only with scents,--scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise When the spade wounds the root of tree, Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too, Flowing from where a bonfire burns The dead, the waste, the dangerous, And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough To smell, to crumble the dark earth. While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth.