And there most kindly summer throws
The lightest snowflakes of the rose,
And buttercups grow tall and straight
In fields that keep an open gate,
And daisies make a frosty gleam;
And yet you may not sleep nor dream,
Though field and road and wood are blessed,
Touched by the peaceful hands of rest.
On Otmoor, you may hear the voice
Of living green things that rejoice—