Where the hollow lane lies, deepen'd
Down below two banks, high steepen'd,
And o'ergrown with flow'rs and wood,
Rose our elm tree, big and lofty,
By the high ground, rough and tofty,
Where of old a house had stood —
Stood before the tree was seen
Green-bough'd up above the green.

There the bank had crumbled, showing
Some of his long roots, outgrowing,
As in rongs for us to tread,
Which, with little legs outstriding,
We upclimbed, not seldom sliding
To the bottom, heels o'erhead —
Head, aye, with a head all bare
To its locks of shining hair.

Near our house-wall, lichen-dappled,
Rose the orchard, bloom'd or appled,
In the spring, or in the fall,
And the rook'ry, newly nested,
Or with rooklings glossy-breasted,
Loud with many a croaking call —
Calls well match'd by many a sound
Of our shrill voices on the ground.