Vii. News For London

Whence may I glean a just return, my friend, For tidings of your great world hither borne? What garbs of new opinion men have worn I wot not, nor what fame world-without-end Sprouted last night, nor know I to contend For Irving or the Italian; but forlorn In this odd angle of the isle from morn Till eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend. Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for glee Treading the drenched rock-ridges, and the gale Hiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the bee Driven sidelong quested low; and I have seen The live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green, And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.