As, lithely pitched, the full-heaped fork bids on

The harvest home. I hear the rickyard fill

With gossip as in generations gone,

While wagon follows wagon from the hill.

I think how, when our seasons all are sealed,

Shall come the unchanging harvest from the field.

30

I see the barns and comely manors

planned

Tyre,

With laden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of
fire;

And all those ships were certainly so old By men who somehow moved in comely Who knows how oft with squat and noisy

thought,

gun,