His wage of rest at nightfall still

He takes, who sixty years has known

Of ploughing over Cotsall hill

And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.

He meditates the dusk, and sees

Folds of his wonted shepherdings

And lands of stubble and tall trees

Becoming insubstantial things.

And does he see on Cotsall hill --

Thrown even to the central shire --

The funnelled shapes forbidding still

The stranger from his cottage fire?