On the Road to Baydon

Alfred Williams

    How still, how solitary are the heights
   That round me in a sweeping circle lie!
   A hazy texture intercepts the sky,
The glimmering field is strewed with golden lights;
The languorous air to soothing sleep invites;
   No breath to mar the stillness, not a sigh!
   No rustling cricket's chirp, nor any cry,
No peewits wheeling their aerial flights.
It seems that every living thing were fled;
   Suspended Nature hung aside her lute;
That ghostly Silence, from the land of dread,
   Stole hitherward our senses to confute;
That the inhabitable world were dead;
   Language unheard of, sound itself were mute.