Tools with the comely names, Mattock and scythe and spade, Couth and bitter as flames, Clean, and bowed in the blade, A man and his tools make a man and his trade.
Lying on Downs above the wrinkling bay I with the kestrels shared the cleanly day, The candid day; wind-shaven, brindled turf; Tall cliffs; and long sea-line of marbled surf...
Let us go back together to the hills. Weary am I of palaces and courts, Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,, Come, my beloved, let us to the hills.