On Rye Hill

Green meadows after the rainfall look like spring: 
We pass along them, lazily loitering.
White flowers in the deep grass move at the touch of a white moth's wing: 
The cattle are still in the meadow, and high on the hill
The sheep are still. 

A robin sings in the hawthorn that leans so low 
Bowed by the weight of its haws, and the blackberries show 
Delicate blossom, and fruit that deepens from red 
Into the perfect black, and the deep-thorned branches spread,
Traps in the yellowing grass for the careless feet that fare 
This way in the lover's twilight, and up from the alders there 
A cloud of swallows rises and dances high in the air. 

Bells leap up to us, following with chime upon chime 
Us as we climb 
Up past the alder coolness, the hazel screen.
Over us now no trees but the oaks stand green; 
Beautiful, steadfast, grave, they gather and stand 
Guarding the dimpling land. 
And far away where the girdle of oaks slips free — 
Behold, the sea.