For the Sun was marching toward the West,
And the man had many a mile to go,
And time is swift and toil is slow.
The grassy meadows were green and fair
Bestudded with many a blossom rare,
And the lane was dusty, and dry, and bare;
But even there, in a tiny shade
A jutting stone in the wall had made,
A tuft of clover had lately sprung—
It had not bloomed for it yet was young—