English Hills
O that I were Where breaks the pure cold light On English hills, And peewits rising cry, And gray is all the sky. Or at evening there When the faint slow light stays, And far below Sleeps the last lingering sound, And night leans all round. O then, O there 'Tis English haunted ground. The diligent stars Creep out, watch, and smile; The wise moon lingers awhile. For surely there Heroic shapes are moving, Visible thoughts, Passions, things divine, Clear beneath clear star-shine. O that I were Again on English hills, Seeing between Laborious villages Her cool dark loveliness.
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"O that I were..."
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