  Summer broods o’er Berkley Common, o’er the fields of everlasting, And around the common cluster homes no one would ever rent; The people that once lived there, long have gone to other places, Dusty heirlooms in the garrets give a clue to where they went. Like a manuscript, all yellow, and with many things deleted, Yet a manuscript completed, with embellishments most rare, Berkley Common lies forgotten, with its fields of everlasting, And the sunlight on the windows of the empty houses there. It is off the line of travel; to the present unrelated; Only peddlers down from Dighton go that way to Taunton Weir; They haste by Berkley Common, by the fields of everlasting, For the empty houses fill them with a feeling like to fear. |
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