PAST the town's clamour is a garden full 
Of loneness and old greenery; at noon 
When birds are hush'd, save one dim cushat's croon, 
A ripen'd silence hangs beneath the cool 
Great branches; basking roses dream and drop 
A petal, and dream still; and summer's boon 
Of mellow grasses, to be levell'd soon 
By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop 
At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees. 
Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day, 
And know all night in dusky placidness 
It lies beneath the summer, while great ease 
Broods in the leaves, and every light wind's stress 
Lifts a faint odour down the verdurous way.