Song: 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.