  THRO’ rosy cloud, and over thorny towers, Their wings with all the autumn distance filled, From Isis’ valley border hundred-hilled, The rooks are crowding home as evening lowers: Not for men only and their musing hours, By battled walls did gracious Wykeham build These dewy spaces early sown and stilled, These dearest inland melancholy bowers. Blest birds! A book held open on the knee Below, is all they know of Adam’s blight: With surer art the while, and simpler rite, They follow Truth in some monastic tree, Where breathe against their innocent breasts by night The scholar’s star, the star of sanctity. Divider
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