And distant glimpses of the Channel;
Fair morns to wake on—were they not?—
Full of the pigeons’ coo and cadence,
Each day a page of Caldecott,
All cream and flowers and pretty maidens.
For Fable: as I smoked a pipe
And havered with a black-haired cowman,
Grey-eyed, in that fine Celtic type,
As much the poet as the ploughman—
“Seems kind of lucky here,” said I;