Not unduly, loom a row—
Keepers of Piers Plowman’s visions, through the sunshine and the snow.
Yet in childhood little prized I
That fair walk and far survey;
’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by
The least mischief worth a nay—
Up and down—as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!
But the wood, all close and clenching,
Bough in bough, and root in root—
No more sky, for over-branching,