I do not see the hills around, <br />Nor mark the tints the copses wear; <br />I do not note the grassy ground <br />And constellated daisies there. <br /> <br />I hear not the contralto note <br />Of cuckoos hid on either hand, <br />The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat <br />When eve's brown awning hoods the land. <br /> <br />Some say each songster, tree and mead-- <br />All eloquent of love divine-- <br />Receives their constant careful heed: <br />Such keen appraisement is not mine. <br /> <br />The tones around me that I hear, <br />The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, <br />Are those far back ones missed when near, <br />And now perceived too late by me!<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-rambler/
