With the joy of a living soul.
Ye know that wood-walk sweet,
Where we are wont to meet;
On either hand the knolls and swells
Are crimson with the heather-bells;
And the eye sees,
Mid distant trees,
Where moorland beauty dwells.
With the joy of a living soul.
Ye know that wood-walk sweet,
Where we are wont to meet;
On either hand the knolls and swells
Are crimson with the heather-bells;
And the eye sees,
Mid distant trees,
Where moorland beauty dwells.