That pillar from the plain this tent of blue,—
The quiet homes amid the cooling fields,
The flashing rivers and the woods remote,
The little high white town among the hills!
All, all are good to look on, and most dear
To my remembering eyes. Each crocus, too,
And gold narcissus, gleams memorial,—
Untouched of sorrow for that troubled day
Impetuous hoof and wheel threshed through the wheat,
And ’mid these opiate blooms the Four-Horsed One