Their pastime.
And even when his immediate concern, as in The Message of the March Wind, is with the life of an age that is his own by accident as it were, the manner still prevails—
Now sweet, sweet it is thro’ the land to be straying,
’Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field;
Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing
On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is heal’d.
From township to township, o’er down and by tillage
Far, far have we wander’d and long was the day;
But now cometh eve at the end of the village,
Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey.