Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side,
Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller's dower;
See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, And through the Winter neglected lay,
Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond,
The Boy from his bedroom-window Look'd over the little town,
A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days;
In early morning twilight, raw and chill, Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Far from the churchyard dig his grave, On some green mound beside the wave;
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight;
Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam,
I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel The full deliciousness of this bright day,
O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds above -
Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down;
Amy Margaret's five years old, Amy Margaret's hair is gold,
The vast and solemn company of clouds Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined,
That which he did not feel, he would not sing; What most he felt, religion it was to hide
Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn.
I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago;
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen,
October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Doleful was the land, Dull on, every side,
Pluck not the wayside flower, It is the traveller's dower;
See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down, And through the Winter neglected lay,
Four ducks on a pond, A grass-bank beyond,
The Boy from his bedroom-window Look'd over the little town,
A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days;
In early morning twilight, raw and chill, Damp vapours brooding on the barren hill,
Far from the churchyard dig his grave, On some green mound beside the wave;
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight;
Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam,
I'm glad I am alive, to see and feel The full deliciousness of this bright day,
O pale green sea, With long, pale, purple clouds above -
Gray, gray is Abbey Assaroe, by Belashanny town, It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down;
Amy Margaret's five years old, Amy Margaret's hair is gold,
The vast and solemn company of clouds Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined,
That which he did not feel, he would not sing; What most he felt, religion it was to hide
Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born; Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn.
I thought it was the little bed I slept in long ago;
Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen,
October - and the skies are cool and gray O'er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,