THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



Adown the lane athwart this pleasant 



wood 

 The broad-winged butterflies their 



solace sought ; 

 A green-necked pheasant in the sunlight 



stood, 

 Nor could the rushes hide him as he 



thought. 

 A humble-bee through fern and thistle 



made 

 A search for lowly flowers in the shade. 



A thing of many wanderings, and loss, 



Like to Ulysses on his poplar raft, 

 His treasure hid beneath the tunnelled 

 moss 

 Lest that a thief his labour steal with 

 craft, 

 Up the round hill, sheep-dotted, was his 



way, 

 Zigzagging where some new adventure 

 lay. 



126 



