Along the relic of an ancient ride
Where all the summer's weeds, an upstart race,
The thoroughfare of centuries denied,
We took our way, nor wished a better place.

There gilded flies and bees buzzed sweet content;
The path became a glade, a thousand ways
About the hills and holes the brambles went,
With first dewberries blue as thunder haze.

Red rosy flowers a thicket swarmed beyond
Where long ago the faint brook's dropples died,
And, not to drown us in their blossomed pond,
Into the pasture's gap we turned aside.

Stern on their knolls the patriarch thistles stood,
Nid-nodding in assembly passing wise,
While often urchin winds in antic rude
Plucked their white beards, puffed them to sink or rise,

Like tufts stolen from the clouds, whose concourse slow
Darkened awhile or lightened travelling on,
The darkest turning whiter than new snow
As through the clifts the sun a moment shone.

A nameless track, a rabble of outcast weeds,
And knots of thistle-wool in clownish chase,
What fare were these to furnish pleasure's needs?
We laughed at time, nor wished a better place.