From this hill where the air's so clear 
We can see away and away, 
And the villages, far as near, 
Shine in the lucid day. 

On rough short grass we tread 
And thistles bend at our feet 
And a lark sings overhead 
And the clouds are white and fleet. 

The wind is strong in our faces, 
It drives us, we veer and yield, 
And a broken thistle-top races 
Over the tossing field; 

But below, as we look around, 
The deep long plains appear 
Like a lost country drowned 
In a tranquil flood of air, 

Whence now and again there rises 
To the listener on this shore 
The muffled sound of the voices 
Of bells that ring once more.