OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



Whose edges rest upon the hills 

 around, 

 Rings many a mile with blue enamelled 



wall ; 

 His fir-tree is the centre of it all. 



A lichened cup he set against the side 

 High up this mast, earth-stepped, 

 that could not fail, 

 But swung a little as a ship might ride, 

 Keeping an easy balance in the gale ; 

 Slow-heaving like a gladiator's breast, 

 Whose strength in combat feels an idle 

 rest. 



Whether the cuckoo or the chaffinch 

 most 

 Do triumph in the issuing of their 

 song? 

 I say not this, but many a swelling boast 

 They throw each at the other all day 

 long. 

 Soon as the nest had cradled eggs a-twin 

 The jolly squirrel climbed to look therein. 



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