The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 610
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
And the low moan of leaden-colour’d seas.
Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
Tho’ faintly, merrily—far and far away—
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 615