And sometimes I am sorry, when the grass is growing over the stones in quiet hollows, and the cock's foot leans across the rutted cart-pass, that I am not the voice of country-fellows, who now are standing by some headland, talking of turnips and potatoes, or young corn of turf-banks stripped for victory. Here peace is still hawking his coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn. Upon a headland by a winny hedge, a hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow. There's an old plough upside down on a weedy ridge, and someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow. Out of that childhood country, what fools climb to fight with tyrants, love and life and time?