Fresh apples, while a little lass
Over as o’er breeze-ripples hung:
That sight I saw, and passed as aliens pass.
My footpath left the pleasant farms and lanes,
Soft cottage-smoke, straight cocks a-crow, gay flowers;
Beyond the wheel-ruts of the wains,
Across a heath I walked for hours,
And met its rival tenants, rays and rains.
Still in my view mile-distant firs appeared,
When, under a patched channel-bank enriched