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Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,
Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he
He himself was like a cob
Also he loved a tree.
For the life in them he loved most living things,
But a tree chiefly.
All along the lane
He planted elms where now the stormcock sings
That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.
Till then the track had never had a name
For all its thicket and the nightingales
That should have earned it.
No one was to blame
To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.
Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now
None passes there because the mist and the rain
Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough
And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.
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