VIII
And oft, as now, I pressed the purple bloom—
The heather-plumaged breast of this high moor;
And heard, as now I hear, the wandering boom
Of these winged gleaners of the honeyed store.
IX
O well loved vale! For I am bound to thee
By subtle threads of thought that memory weaves;
Yea, sitting in thy shadow, Liberty,
Like dawn first knew I, opening life’s leaves;