Here the Sun bore down upon the quiet fields
And vast tidal wave of green flowing hills.
Below Billowing Clouds like sluggish Sheep
To where the Butterfly and Bee flutter.
Their business being to guild the bright eye,
To give pleasure to Summer\'s swift tenure,
As if to say: This out toil , long passed down\';
Didn\'t Dryden or Dunne smile on such deeds\'?
To the soft warm breeze that blows heady scent
Like the aroma of your Sweethearts hair,
From yonder Heathy Hill or Cowslip\'ed dale,
Near the lulled Song of the Milkmaids drifting
Towards Farm-hands that do flirt with good cheer;
Yelling their calls that tell of dancing soon
To fiddled Music and Barrels of Ale.
Near Village Greens with Leather on Willow,
To loud Triumphant Calls by falling Bails.
A steady old game - A Patient Old game.
Hear - once heard by Souls that are so much dust,
A thousand grey Stone Churches Ring -Out their song
For the joining of Hands or near the font-
As the Union of Hearts spawns future Man,
To saunter in Time\'s Worn weary footsteps,
And bear the days weight from cradle to Grave.
See - all is well as of Centuries Past,
The grinding Wheels of life turn Slumbering;
Turn with the contentment of it\'s placed sound.
Then - a distant loud Shot killed an Archduke.