The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall.
The dear old sleepy town is still abed
Although the eastern clouds are tinged with red.
And everything is as this graveyard still,
Except the soldiers at their morning drill,
And in the Pool a fishing boat or two
Belated, homeward pulled with weary oar,
And the dim curlews on the distant shore,
And the lark soaring through the ether blue.
But now the lazy smoke curls through the air—