"Pip, pip!" the hedges ring again,
"Pip, pip!" the corn, "Pip, pip!" the rye,
"Pip, pip!" the woods and meadows cry,
As through the thirsty, fever'd day,
The red-hot scorchers scorch their way.
Peace is no longer, Rest is dead,
And sweetest Solitude hath fled;
And over all, the cycling lust
Hath spread its trail of noise and dust.
So, would I woo the joys of Quiet,