Sometimes great seas of ripening corn they spy
Across whose rippling face
The shadowy billows race
And round the gate, forlornly whispering, die;
Or in dark rutted lanes by weeds o'ergrown,
Round-eyed they watch a thrush
That breaks the noonday hush
Dashing with zest a snail against a stone;
At others, on an impulse waxing brave,
They climb the churchyard wall