The Roots of the Mountains, by William Morris

Whiles carried o’er the iron road,

We hurry by some fair abode;

The garden bright amidst the hay,

The yellow wain upon the way,

The dining men, the wind that sweeps

Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps —

The gable grey, the hoary roof,

Here now — and now so far aloof.

How sorely then we long to stay

And midst its sweetness wear the day,

And ‘neath its changing shadows sit,

And feel ourselves a part of it.

Such rest, such stay, I strove to win

With these same leaves that lie herein.