I straightened my back from turmut-hoeing
And saw, with suddenly opened eyes,
Tall trees, a meadow ripe for mowing,
And azure June's cloud-circled skies.

Below, the earth was beautiful
Of touch and colour, fair each weed,
But Heaven's high beauty held me still,
Only of music had I need.

And the white-clad girl at the old farm,
Who smiled and looked across at me,
Dumb was held by that strong charm
Of cloud-ships sailing a foamless sea.