Through rosy cloud, and over thorny towers,
Their wings with darkling autumn distance filled,
From Isis’ valley border, hundred-hilled,
The rooks are crowding home as evening lowers:
Not for men only, and their musing hours,
By battled walls did gracious Wykeham build
These dewy spaces early sown and stilled,
These dearest inland melancholy bowers.
Blest birds! A book held open on the knee
Below, is all they guess of Adam’s blight:
With surer art the while, and simpler rite,
They follow Truth in some monastic tree,
Where breathe against their docile breasts, by night,
The scholar’s star, the star of sanctity.