Chapter 6 A Quiet Place

My friend, are not the grasses here as tall

As you would wish to see? The runnell's fall

Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink

Of shining points which, upon this side, sink

In dark, yet still are there; this ragged crane

Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain

Terror, forsooth; the trees, a pulpy stock

Of toadstools huddled round them; and the flock-

Black wings after black wings-of ancient rook

By rook; has not the whole scene got a look

As though we were the first whose breath should fan

In two this spider's web, to give a span

Of life more to three flies? See, there's a stone

Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone

By here, and passed? or rested on that bank

Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank

For the grass growing here so green and rank?