The Holiday.

The world's great ways unclose

Through little wooded hills:

An air that stirs and stills,

Dies sighing where it rose

Or flies to sigh again

In elms, whose stately rows

Receive the summer rain,

And clouds, clouds, clouds go by,

A drifting cavalry,

In squadrons that disperse

And troops that reassemble

And now they pass and now

Their glittering wealth disburse

On tufted grass a-tremble

And lately leafing bough.

Thus through the shining day

We'll love or pass away

Light hours in golden sleep,

With clos'd half-sentient eyes

And lids the light comes through,

As sheep and flowers do

Who no new toils devise,

While shining insects creep

About us where we lie

Beneath a pleasant sky,

In fields no trouble fills,

Whence, as the traveller goes,

The world's great ways unclose

Through little wooded hills.