I will arise, and go there now,
to my home near the old ash tree.
That cottage just below the brow,
holds a welcome there for me.
Then I'll have some peace there,
in the veils of the morning mist.
Watching it rise, slow in the air,
as by the sun, the Stour is kissed.
The surrounding water meadows,
fringed by forest trees,
which give such welcome shadows,
that every traveller sees.
And at noon, bluebells like heather,
seemed to swim in glades, like lakes,
being rippled by the weather,
or birds in smoothing wakes.
So I must go before darkness falls,
with the shadows coming fast.
And so my friend, as Ashford calls,
I must leave this inn at last.