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They dream of autumn colours, the crimson of the cherries,
The breath of heaven’s glory o’er the fields of yellow corn;
They sigh for draughts delicious from juicy rowan berries,
The breath of heaven in the air, so fresh and fair the morn.

How they rested on the wind or pierced the low clouds flying
Across the storm-swept heaven, that barred and distant sky!
Men gave a plot of grass—all earth’s wide range denying—
Scarce large enough to sod them when they die.

I said: Of sight of kingcups and cowslips yellow gleaming,
No avaricious eye will envious loose its hold,
Nor will a greedy hand, where the celandine lies dreaming,
Dart hungrily to rob her of her gold.

There is an end of passion—a joy reigns there for ever,
That the storm’s great exultation cannot conquer or displace;
Here is an end of quiet, and weary hearts rest never.
Lest coming feet should crush them in the passion of life’s race.