The Night Mail and Other Poems

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How often underneath the sun

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With childish bounds I used to run

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To a garden long deserted.

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The beds and walks were vanish’d quite;

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And wheresoe’er had struck the spade,

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The greenest grasses Nature laid,

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To sanctify her right.

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I call’d the place my wilderness,

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For no one enter’d there but I.

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The sheep look’d in, the grass to espy,

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And pass’d it ne’ertheless.

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The trees were interwoven wild,

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And spread their boughs enough about

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To keep both sheep and shepherd out,

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But not a happy child.