  To straight the back, how good; to see the slow Dispersed cloud-flocks of Heaven wandering blind Without a shepherd, feel caress the kind Sweet August air, soft drifting to and fro Meadow and arable.—Leaning on my hoe I searched for any beauty eyes might find. The tossing wood showed silver in the wind; Green hills drowsed wakeful in the golden glow. Yet all the air was loud with mutterings, Rumours of trouble strange in that rich peace, Where War’s dread birds must practise without cease All that the stoutest pilot-heart might dare. Death over dreaming life managed his wings, Droning dull song in the sun-satiate air. |
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