Golden and phantom-pale they lay,
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.
Plod, plod, through herbage thin or dense;
Past chattering rills of quartz;
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence
The shy black ouzel darts;
Through empty leagues of broad, bare lands,
Beneath the empty skies,