Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,

And drowsily the habit of these most

Beloved of English lands moves in my brain,

While silence holds dominion of the dark,

Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.

I see the valleys in their morning mist

Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light,

Happy with many a yeoman melodist:

I see the little roads of twinkling white

Busy with fieldward teams and market gear