In the foothills, helped along by horses,
The rutted mud-cart wheels of wood and steel
Roll on and up past thatch-hut homes by noon,
Up to where the hill crests in splendid view
And far vales undulate in green commune;
So far until my tired eyes give up
And grow to close and sleep all afternoon,
My head a'rest on muddy wheels of wood,
Till night comes, and I wake beneath the moon.
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