Whiles carried o'er the iron road,  
We hurry by some fair abode;  
The garden bright amidst the hay,  
The yellow wain upon the way,  
The dining men, the wind that sweeps  
Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps -  
The gable grey, the hoary roof,  
Here now--and now so far aloof.  
How sorely then we long to stay  
And midst its sweetness wear the day,  
And 'neath its changing shadows sit,  
And feel ourselves a part of it.  
Such rest, such stay, I strove to win  
With these same leaves that lie herein.