From a Lincolnshire Farm

Through the sheltering sycamores Blows the wild wind from the shores, And the nations of the wheat Bow and sway before his feet. Where the far fields fade, and die In the shining of the sky, Right across the spacious plain He is gone, and back again. He will ruffle, as they browse, Those old meadow-gods, the cows; He will toss, like prancing steeds, All the beanfields and the reeds, Whilst the scattered clouds on high Speed like galleons through the sky.

We alone are safe indoors, Sheltered by the sycamores.