Our old familiars are not laid,

Though snapped our wands and sunk our books,

They beckon, not to be gainsaid,

Where, round broad meads which mowers wade,

Smooth Charles his steel-blue sickle crooks;

Where, as the cloudbergs eastward blow,

From glow to gloom the hill-side shifts

Its lakes of rye that surge and flow,

Its plumps of orchard-trees arow,

Its snowy white-weed’s summer drifts.