I drop my dazzled eyes to view
The soft field-grass and meadow-rue,
The restful, brown earth, that I love.
A trick of blinding sun, maybe,
That halo on the hills may prove—
And yet, they are so dear to me,
The golden glory that they wear
Is like none other anywhere,
And, in my heart, I hold it true.
Though, surely, what least loving eye