The stile swam out: a wilderness

Rolled round it, grey and blind.

[Pg 2]

A yard in front, a yard behind,

So strait my world was grown,

I stooped to win once more some kind

Glimmer of twig or stone.

IV

I crossed and lost the friendly stile

And listened. Never a sound

Came to me. Mile on mile on mile

It seemed the world around

Beneath some infinite sea lay drowned

With all that e'er drew breath;

Whilst I, alone, had strangely found

A moment's life in death.

V

A universe of lifeless grey

Oppressed me overhead.

Below, a yard of clinging clay

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