He clangs the furnace-door
On the heat and glare and roar,
And wipes his brow; and, tilting
The bucket, takes a pull
At waters sweet and cool;
And, as he drinks, it seems to him
That he is home once more.

For the water, drawn so far
From the springs by Eagle Scar,
Has a smack of peat about it;
And he seems to drink the cool
Waters of the amber pool
Underneath the granite boulder,
All aglint with flakes of spar.

On his belly in the ling,
Gazing deep into the spring,
With his lips to welling waters,
Once again he seems to lie
Underneath the April sky,
So alive with skylarks singing
That it seems, itself, to sing.