Articles by Nathaniel Hayward


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The Running Hare

In silver woods beneath the Moon, On roads below the Sun, The wind is singing an ancient tune, Of the hares eternal run.   For earth and stars are slow and still, And the wind breathes through the rye, When ‘cross the brackish ruddy rill, The hare comes slipping by.   And racing there the…

A Winter’s Walk on Leith Hill

Clear as the waters that once had dropped, The air flitting lightly high on the hills, Stirred and summoned the birds to flight, To flight and song that comes midst spring’s first breath.   Pine-tops swayed in the warming air, Each crown shuddering at winter, Which still clung to the upper reaches, where, The Sun…