By swale and hill

 I see their gipsy signs,

 Trespassing somewhere on my border lines;

 With what designs?

 I forth afoot; but when I reach the place,

 Hardly a trace,

 Save the soft purple haze

 Of smouldering camp-fires, any hint betrays

 Who went these ways.

 Or tatters of pale aster blue, descried

 By the roadside,

 Reveal whither they fled;

 Or the swamp maples, here and there a shred

 Of Indian red.

 But most of all, the marvellous tapestry

 Engrosses me,

 Where such strange things are rife,

 Fancies of beasts and flowers, and love and strife,

 Woven to the life;

 Degraded shapes and splendid seraph forms,

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