If it were only still!—

With far away the shrill

Crying of a cock;

Or the shaken bell

From a cow’s throat

Moving through the bushes;

Or the soft shock

Of wizened apples falling

From an old tree

In a forgotten orchard

Upon the hilly rock!

Oh grey hill

Where the grazing herd

Licks the purple blossom

Crops the spiky weed!

Oh stony pasture

Where the tall mullein

Stands up so sturdy

On its little seed!