Sonnets on Separation VII.

    We're at the world's top now.    The hills around
        Stand proud in order with the valleys deep,
    The hills with pastures drest, with tall trees crowned,
        And the low valleys dipt in sunny sleep.
    A sound brims all the country up, a noise
        Of wheels upon the road and labouring bees
    And trodden heather, mixing with the voice
        Of small lost winds that die among the trees.
    And we are prone beneath the flooding sun,
        So drenched, so soaked in the unceasing light,
    That colours, sounds and your close presence are one,
        A texture woven up of all delight,
    Whose shining threads my hands may not undo,
    Yet one thread runs the whole bright garment through.