'Mid fragrant meads, knee-deep in June,
Lulled by the song of birds and bees,
I'd saunter idly at mine ease
To that still churchyard where, with Gray,
I'd dream a golden hour away,
Forgetful all of aught but this—
That peace was mine, and mine was bliss.
But now should my all-eager feet
Seek out some whilom calm retreat,
"Pip, pip!" resounds in every lane,