Walking song

The miles go sliding by

Under my steady feet,

That mark a leisurely

And still unbroken beat,

Through coppices that hear

Awhile, then lie as still

As though no traveller

Ever had climbed their hill.

My comrades are the small

Or dumb or singing birds,

Squirrels, field things all

And placid drowsing herds.

Companions that I must

Greet for a while, then leave

Scattering the forward dust

From dawn to late of eve.