Memorials of Travel: IX. Dover

A joy has met me on this English ground
I looked not for. O gladness, fields still green!
Listen,--the going of a murmurous sound
Along the corn; there is not to be seen
In all the land a single pilèd sheaf
Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree
Has felt as yet within its lightest leaf
The year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for me
Her bright, late flowers. O my Summer-time
Named low as lost, I turn, and find you here--
Where else but in our blessed English clime
That lingers o’er the sweet days of the year,
Days of long dreaming under spacious skies
Ere melancholy winds of Autumn rise.