Dover's Hill

From this hill where the air's so clear

We can see away and away,

And the villages, far as near,

Shine in the lucid day.

On rough short grass we tread

And thistles bend at our feet

And a lark sings overhead

And the clouds are white and fleet.

The wind is strong in our faces,

It drives us, we veer and yield,

And a broken thistle-top races

Over the tossing field;

But below, as we look around,

The deep long plains appear

Like a lost country drowned

In a tranquil flood of air,

Whence now and again there rises

To the listener on this shore

The muffled sound of the voices

Of bells that ring once more.