About my window, I have burst my tomb

And stand assumed to the imperial down.

From the warm-breathing vale as from a prison,

From last year's plashy oak-leaves to the austere

Summits of chalky plough-land, I have risen

And sloughed my skin of sloth and heavened me here.

Past gardens laden with lilac and slow streams

Where the black-flowering rush renews its ranks

Where willow-drills lave in a mist of dreams

Their whispering leaflets, past the roadside banks