‘The old coach-road thro’ a common of furze,
With knolls of pine, ran white:
Berries of autumn, with thistles and burrs,
And spider-threads droop’d in the light.
‘The light in a thin blue veil peer’d sick;
The sheep grazed close and still;
The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick
Curl’d lazily under a hill.
‘No fly shook the round of the silver net;
No insect the swift bird chased;