The cricket from the droughty ground;

The grass-hoppers spin into mine ear

A small innumerable sound.

I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:

The burning sky-line blinds my sight:

The woods far off are blue with haze;

The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that

Is always sharp or always sweet;

In the sloped shadow of my hat

I lean at rest, and drain the heat;

Nay more, I think some blessèd power

Hath brought me wandering idly here:

In the full furnace of this hour

My thoughts grow keen and clear.

[Pg 14]

[Pg 14]

AMONG THE TIMOTHY.

Long hours ago, while yet the morn was blithe,

Nor sharp athirst had drunk the beaded dew,

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