The dawn comes cold: the haystack smokes,

The green twigs crackle in the fire,

The dew is dripping from the oaks,

And sleepy men bear milking-yokes

Slowly towards the cattle-byre.

Down in the town a clock strikes six,

The grey east heaven burns and glows,

The dew shines on the thatch of ricks,

A slow old crone comes gathering sticks,

The red cock in the ox-yard crows.

Beyond the stack where we have lain

The road runs twisted like a snake

(The white road to the land of Spain),

The road that we must foot again,

Though the feet halt and the heart ache.