Roofed with its osier-twigs and thatched with its bundles of sedges;I from the dried oak hewn and fashioned with rustical hatchet,Guarding them year by year while more are they evermore thriving.For here be owners twain who greet and worship my Godship,He of the poor hut lord and his son, the pair of them peasants:This with assiduous toil aye works the thicketty herbageAnd the coarse water-grass to clear afar from my chapel:That with his open hand ever brings me offerings humble.Hung up in honour mine are flowery firstlings of spring-tide,Wreaths with their ears still soft the tender stalklets a-crowning;Violets pale are mine by side of the poppy-head pallid;