Here might the lover, with a heart like June,
        Go whistling on from sunshine into shade,
From shade to sunshine; here the gentle maid
Might think the summer twilight came too soon;
Here, while o’erhead, with sympathetic croon,
The doves made memory sadder as he strayed,
Some sorrowful old man, his last hopes laid
In ashes, yet might find thy woods a boon.
The beauty, Glaisdale, of thy stream and wood
Has ages incommensurate by man;
It knows not time, it feels not any change.
In yonder narrow vale, each cot and grange
Must sing and weep alternate; but thy mood
Is joy since buds broke forth or river ran.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 193)