Sydenham Wood, 1849.

The air blows pure, for twenty miles,

Over this vast countrié:

Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth,

Over steeple, and stack, and tree:

And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth

How sweet these meadows be.

The swallows are flying beside the wood,

And the corbies are hoarsely crying;

And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood,

And, thorough the hedge and over the road,

On the grassy slope is lying:

And the sheep are taking their supper-food

While yet the rays are dying.

Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows,

And giant-long shadows the trees are making;

And velvet soft are the woodland tufts,

And misty-gray the low-down crofts;

But the aspens there have gold-green tops,

And the gold-green tops are shaking:

The spires are white in the sun's last light; —

And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.

Two sheep, afar from fold,

Are on the hill-side straying,

With backs all silver, breasts all gold:

The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:

— ‘The day—the day—the day is done:’

There answereth a single bleat—

The air is cold, the sky is dimming,

And clouds are long like fishes swimming.