BROAD level fields, and hedges thick with trees,
A calm still evening dropping fitful rain,
And hawthorns loaded with their perfum'd snow;
All Nature langorous, and yet alive
With humming insects and with bleating sheep;
A sky both grey and tender,--misty clouds
Floating therein, streak'd here and there with gold;
And golden flowers topping the tall June grass.
Ivy clothes all the ruins, sprouting weeds,
Lichen, and moss for richest tapestry;
While for festivity and regal pomp
Held in the olden time, is nothing now
But tune of children's voices, and the calm
Quiet evening, misty on the ruins. Far
Over the fields are farms and gardens gay;
And strong magnificent oaks, beneath whose boughs
Twilight sits brooding ere she walks abroad.
A soft moist summer eve,--'tis Nature grieving
For the depart of Spring; not yet the sun
Hath dried her thoughtful tears; or else it is
The death of the Last Fairy, and the flowers
Hang down their heavy heads in grief for her.

I on this highest tower look far away
Over this lovely England; and I think
There is a poetry in our northern land

Peculiar to itself: though it hath not
The gorgeous colouring of southern shores,
Peopled with hero shades and temple-crown'd,
Yet we too have our tale of deeds sublime,
And spirits haunting our green forest glades,
And a grave meditation, born from out
Endeavouring lives and quiet scenery
And summer evenings so divine as this.