  IWANDER in the open fields Amazed, for there is no one by, To see the bowery-hanging trees So sympathetic with the sky; Where sheets of daisies on the grass Lie like Our Lord's discarded shrouds, Whence He is risen grow the elms And etch their verges on the clouds. But when I walk the causey'd town Whose citizens with tedious breath Make certain day by day that tomb Which shuts the Godhead underneath, I sorrowing tread the cobbled way Their strait-rankt chestnut-rows between, Where myriad blossoms hardly light One sombre pyramid of green. |
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