The miles go sliding by <br />Under my steady feet, <br />That mark a leisurely <br />And still unbroken beat, <br />Through coppices that hear <br />Awhile, then lie as still <br />As though no traveller <br />Ever had climbed their hill. <br />My comrades are the small <br />Or dumb or singing birds, <br />Squirrels, field things all <br />And placid drowsing herds. <br />Companions that I must <br />Greet for a while, then leave <br />Scattering the forward dust <br />From dawn to late of eve.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/walking-song-2/
