Whiles carried o'er the iron road,We hurry by some fair abode;The garden bright amidst the hay,The yellow wain upon the way,The dining men, the wind that sweepsLight locks from off the sun-sweet heaps --The gable grey, the hoary roof,Here now -- and now so far aloof.How sorely then we long to stayAnd midst its sweetness wear the day,And 'neath its changing shadows sit,And feel ourselves a part of it.Such rest, such stay, I strove to winWith these same leaves that lie herein.-- William Morris, from"The Roots of the Mountains"