The sun he went down--the last gleam from his brow Flung a smile of repose on the holiday plough; The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rain Fell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel mane Of the horse that the miller had brought to be shod, And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd-- For a bit of the halter still hung at the door, Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor; And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather, While all kept on singing and drinking together. _The Flitting_ I've left my own old home of homes, Green fields and every pleasant place; The summer like a stranger comes, I pause and hardly know her face. I miss the hazel's happy green, The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms, Where envy's sneer was never seen, Where staring malice never comes. I miss the heath, its yellow furze, Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs That spread a wilderness indeed; The woodland oaks and all below That their white powdered branches shield, The mossy paths: the very crow Croaks music in my native field. I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home, And hear bird music here and there From hawthorn hedge and orchard come; I hear, but all is strange and new: I sat on my old bench in June, The sailing puddock's shrill "peelew" On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune. I walk adown the narrow lane, The nightingale is singing now, But like to me she seems at loss For Royce Wood and its shielding bough. I lean upon the window sill, The trees and summer happy seem; Green, sunny green they shine, but still My heart goes far away to dream. Of happiness, and thoughts arise With home-bred pictures many a one, Green lanes that shut out burning skies And old crooked stiles to rest upon; Above them hangs the maple tree, Below grass swells a velvet hill, And little footpaths sweet to see Go seeking sweeter places still, With bye and bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown: No brook is here, I feel the loss From home and friends and all alone. --The stone pit with its shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem; I miss the prospect far and wide From Langley Bush, and so I seem Alone and in a stranger scene, Far, far from spots my heart esteems, The closen with their ancient green, Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams. The hawthorns here were hung with may, But still they seem in deader green, The sun een seems to lose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in. I dwell in trifles like a child, I feel as ill becomes a man, And still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can. They turn to places known so long I feel that joy was dwelling there, So home-fed pleasure fills the song That has no present joys to hear.