Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/18

 and north a waste of waters, south and west Lonelier lands than dreams in sleep would feign to be, When the soul goes forth on travel, and is prest Round and compassed in with clouds that flash and flee. Dells without a streamlet, downs without a tree, Cirques of hollow cliff that crumble, give, their guest Little hope, till hard at hand he pause, to see Where the small town smiles, a warm still sea-side nest.

Many a lone long mile, by many a headland's crest, Down by many a garden dear to bird and bee,