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Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,And round green roots and yellowing stalks I seePale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;And air-swept lindens yieldTheir scent, and rustle down their perfumed showersOf bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,And bower me from the August sun with shade;And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.
Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,His mates, had arts to rule as they desiredThe workings of men's brains,And they can bind them to what thoughts they will."And I," he said, "the secret of their art,When fully learn'd, will to the world impart;But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."
(The entire section contains 543 words.)
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