A back-lying farm but lately taken in; Forlorn hill-slopes and grey, without a tree; And at their base a waste of stony lea Through which there creeps, too small to make a din, Even where it slides over a rocky linn, A stream, unvisited of bird or bee, Its flowerless banks a bare sad sight to see. All round, with ceaseless plaint, though spent and thin, Like a lost child far-wandered from its home, A querulous wind all day doth coldly roam. Yet here, with sweet calm face, tending a cow, Upon a rock a girl bareheaded sat, Singing unheard, while with unlifted brow She twined the long wan grasses in her hat. |