Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy,
Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound
Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.
Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door
Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard;
The next stands open, and the sparrows there
Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d
To seek what indications were within;
The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn,
As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh;