Oh! but the old stile stands,

For ever dear to me—
Foot-worn, its bars by many hands
Polished like ebony!
 

But me my city spleen

Holds in a fretting bond.
 

And the quickset hedges mantle green,

And the fields roll green beyond;
While the antique footpath winds about
By farms and little towns,
By waterways, and in and out,
And up and over the downs.

I hear the idle workmen's sighs;

I hear their children's hungry cries;
I hear the burden of the years;
I hear the drip of women's tears;
I hear despair, whose tongue is dumb,
Speak thunder in the ruthless bomb.
 

But why keep brooding over ill?

Why hearken such discordant tones?