To my own own self, while I do wheep, This olden time, as I read these bright world, With colored leaves the thrushes, like their bow, Play on the grass, and burn on yonder bough.

The twilight boughs, my hands are stained with clay, And at the flush of evening sun I kneel, And linger on my ancient couch till play Shall rock me on in dreams from day to day.

• Coventry Patmore