Of closes green and fallows brown,
And distant glimpse of cot and town,
And steeple beck'ning on the sight,
By morning sunbeams painted white,
And darksome woods with shadings sweet,
To make the landscape round complete,
And distant waters glist'ning by,
As if the ground were patch'd with sky;
While on the blue horizon's line
The far-off things did dimly shine,
Which wild conjecture only sees,
And fancy moulds to clouds and trees,
Thinking, if thither she could fly,
She'd find the close of earth and sky.
But as we turn to look again
On nearest objects, wood and plain,
(So truths than fiction lovelier seem),
One warms as wak'ning from a dream.
From covert hedge, on either side,
The blackbirds flutter'd terrified,
Mistaking me for pilfering boy
That doth too oft their nests destroy;
And ‘prink, prink, prink,’ they took to wing,
In snugger shades to build and sing.
From tufted grass or bush, the hare
Oft sprung from her endanger'd lair;
Surprise was startled on her rout,
So near one's feet she bolted out.
The sun each tree-top mounted o'er,
And got church-steeple height or more:
And as I soodled on and on,
The ground was warm to look upon.
The Village Minstrel, and Other Poems (2 volumes, 1821)
Posted by Arborfield at 8:06 am