With his violin.

 Mum did I say? And yet

 That talking smile

 You never can forget,

 Is all the while

 Full of such sweet reproofs

 The darkest day,

 Like morning on the roofs

 In flush of May.

 Like autumn on the hills;

 At four o’clock

 The sun like a herdsman spills

 For drove and flock

 Peace with their provender,

 And they are fed.

51

 The day without a stir

 Lies warm and red.

 Ah, sir, the summer land

 For me! That is

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