The Sun had stooped, his westward clouds to win, Like weary traveler seeking for an inn; When from the hazelly wood we glad descried The ivied gateway by the pasture side. Long had we sought for nuts amid the shade, Where Silence fled the rustle that we made; When torn by briars, and brushed by sedges rank, We left the wood, and on the velvet bank Of short sward pasture-ground we sat us down, To shell our nuts before we reached the town. The near-hand stubble-field, with mellow glower, Showed the dimmed blaze of poppies still in flower; And sweet the mole-hills were we sat upon -- Again the thyme's in bloom, but where is Pleasure gone? |