That they buzz so loud,
Like a restless cloud,
Among the orchard trees?”
No voice in the air, from Sedgemoor field,
Moan’d out how Grey and the horse had reel’d;
Met me no ghost, with haunting eyes,
That westward pointed ’mid its sighs,
And pull’d apart a bloody vest,
And show’d the sword-gash in his breast.
Empty hives, and flitting bees, and sunny morning hours;