In this sweet field high raised above the Thames
Beneath the trenched hill of Sinodun
Amidst sweet dreams of disembodied names
Abide the setting of the August sun,
Here where this long ridge tells of days now done;
This moveless wave wherewith the meadow heaves
Beneath its clover and its barley-sheaves.
Across the gap made by our English hinds
Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold
Far off the long-roofed church the shepherd binds
The withy round the hurdles of his fold
Down the foss the riverbed of old,
That through the long lapse of time has grown to be
The little grassy valley that you see.
Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still,
The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear,
The barley mowers on the trenched hill,
The sheep-bells, and restless changing weir
All little sounds made musical and clear
Beneath the sky that burning August gives,
While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.
- William Morris