Songs on the Downs

This is the road the Romans made, This track half lost in the green hills, Or fading in a forest-glade 'Mid violets and daffodils.

The years have fallen like dead leaves, Unwept, uncounted, and unstayed (Such as the autumn tempest thieves), Since first this road the Romans made.

A miser lives within this house, His patron saint's the gnawing mouse, And there's no peace upon his brows.

A many ancient trees and thin Do fold the place their shade within, And moan, as for remembered sin.