He took his stick and out he went,
The long way to the wold,
Where the sheep-bells clink upon the bent
And every wind is cold.
He passed the rivers running red
And the mountains standing bare;
At last the wold-land lay ahead,
Un-yellowed by the share.
All in the brown October time
He clambered to the weald;
The plum lay purpled into slime,
The harvest lay in field.
Trampled by many-footed rain
The sunburnt corn lay dead;
The myriad finches in the grain
Rose bothering at his tread.
The myriad finches took a sheer
And settled back to food:
A man was not a thing to fear
In such a solitude.
The hurrying of their wings died out,
A silence took the hill;
There was no dog, no bell, no shout,
The windmill’s sails were still.
The gate swung creaking on its hasp,
The pear splashed from the tree,
In the rotting apple’s heart the wasp
Was drunken drowsily.
The grass upon the cart-wheel ruts
Had made the trackways dim;
The rabbits ate and hopped their scuts,
They had no fear of him.
The sunset reddened in the west;
The distant depth of blue
Stretched out and dimmed; to twiggy nest
The rooks in clamour drew.
The oakwood in his mail of brass
Bowed his great crest and stood;
The pine-tree saw St. Withiel pass,
His great bole blushed like blood.