Omens I

Early on the morning of Monday,
I heard the bleating of a lamb,
And the kid-like cry of snipe,
While gently sitting bent,
And the grey-blue cuckoo.
And no food on my stomach.

On the fair evening of Tuesday,
I saw on the smooth stone,
The snail slimy, pale.
And the ashy wheatear,
On the top of the dyke of holes,
The foal of the old mare,
Of sprauchly gait and its back to me.
And I knew from these,
That the year would not rise with me.