Beneath our feet, the shuddering bogs
Made earthquakes of their own,
For greenish-grizzled furtive frogs
And lizards lithe and brown;

And high to east and south and west,
Girt round with feet of gorse,
Lay, summering, breast by giant breast,
The titan brood of tors;

Golden and phantom-pale they lay,
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.

Plod, plod, through herbage thin or dense;
Past chattering rills of quartz;
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence
The shy black ouzel darts;

Through empty leagues of broad, bare lands
Beneath the empty skies,
Clutched in the grip of those vast hands,
Cowed by those golden eyes,

We fled beneath their scornful stare,
Like terror-hunted dogs,
More timid than the lizards were,
And shyer than the frogs.