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No late frosts in prettiness to ghost on boughs nor branch of Beech nor leaning Oak,
When go a winter’s months straight through to dry spring days of saps and gentle dews,
Then energies of Summer’s faithful lights see loaded golds of wealth in Autumn come
Whence the head Agister ‘delights’ as all the mast of wealth for ‘food’ falls down.
Now, the annual: Common of Mast, Pannage past: six thousand snouts a-feast;
Each ringed to surf above the silver grass in ravenings, gold only can they reach!
More commoners their swines may drive upon, to forage free until the feast is gone.
Of all the ‘bundant ‘corn the Oaks have shed there’s little left uncloven hooves to tread.
Now ‘neath the boughs’ and branches’ leaning Oaks, go, see the running mares and foals straight to,
Where once the toxic acorns tempting gold in paths of grazing wanderers lay strewn.
‘tis here, unhurried-hoofed and gentle forms, a-wandering still graze these forest lawns;
Whilst fattened porks turn back to liquid swill, I see ‘New Forest Children’ by a rill!