Ix. Dover

(In a Field)

A joy has met me on this English ground I looked not for. O gladness, fields still green! Listen,--the going of a murmurous sound Along the corn; there is not to be seen In all the land a single pilèd sheaf Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree Has felt as yet within its lightest leaf The year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for me Her bright, late flowers. O my Summer-time Named low as lost, I turn, and find you here-- Where else but in our blessed English clime That lingers o’er the sweet days of the year, Days of long dreaming under spacious skies Ere melancholy winds of Autumn rise.