Dim, in the distance, the city walls
Rise, like the walls of a dreary prison;
On the healing sward where the sunshine falls,
We stand ’mid the flowery folk arisen.
We watch their innocent eyelids ope,
And below we hear the river flowing;
While wilting sweet on the upland slope
Lies the grass of the early mowing.
On through the bees and butterflies,
The grass and the flowers, the hours are walking;