The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,—
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.
There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle—where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,