Bury Hill

To this green hill a something dream-like clings,
Where day by day the little blunt sheep graze,
Threading the tussocks and the toadstool rings,
Nosing the barrows of the olden days.
An air drifts here that's sweet of sea and grass,
And down the combe-side living colour glows;
Spring, Summer, Fall, the chasing seasons pass
To Winter, even lovelier than those.

The dream is deep today, when all that's far
Of wandering water and of darkling wood,
Of weald and ghost-like Down combin├Ęd are
In haze below this hill where God has stood.

Here I, too, stand until the light is gone,
And feed my wonder, while the sheep graze on.
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