The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro.
I will shut my eyes … hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill …
They said: Come along! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand and come along, it’s long after sunset!
The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along by Long Nook, the wind’s died down!
They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your shells, too, and come along, we’ll find you another beach like the beach at Truro.
Let me listen to wind in the ash … it sounds like surf on the shore.