In sight of Blaisdon Hall*

Weary of this town of peopled pain,

I set my path toward the country plain:

To wander there, to gaze and walk alone

and hear again the woodland insect's drone.

Lost in meadow, field and glade

I sought the calm of darkly dappled shade:

sometimes I crossed a tree-trunk bridge

in search of Blaisdon village from fir-topped ridge.

So still the air, I heard the bluebell's tinkle

and caught a hidden thrush's eye a'twinkle

as from hedgèd cover with a thrill

silence was banished by its quavering trill.

Pausing by a shadowed stile

I looked to distant Blaisdon Hall awhile:

Who could have made this? was my thought,

What breath breathed this? What hand this wrought?

Still, what of this beauty to question make,

for I among the wastes of time must take

leave of this prospect, while thoughts remain

and all their inspiring splendour forever retain.