If it were only still!—
With far away the shrill
Crying of a ****;
Or the shaken bell
From a cow’s throat
Moving through the bushes;
Or the soft shock
Of wizened apples falling
From an old tree
In a forgotten orchard
Upon the hilly rock!

Oh, grey hill,
Where the grazing herd
Licks the purple blossom,
Crops the spiky ****!
Oh, stony pasture,
Where the tall mullein
Stands up so sturdy
On its little seed!