But if I praised the busy town,
⁠He loved to rail against it still,
⁠For 'ground in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down,

And merge' he said 'in form and gloss
⁠The picturesque of man and man.'
⁠We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,

Or cool'd within the glooming wave
⁠And last, returning from afar,
⁠Before the crimson-circled star
Had fall'n into her father's grave,

And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
⁠We heard behind the woodbine veil
⁠The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours.