There was no noise at all about the mill
And the slope garden, like a dream, was still.
There came no sound at all into the glade,
Save when the white sack-laden waggons made
Wheel-creaking in the shadowy, slanting road
And the great horses strained against the load;
Or when some trout would splash in the pool perhaps,
Or my old pointer from his pendulous chaps
Bayed at the very stillness. In the house
It was so strangely quiet that the mouse
Held carnival at midday on the floor.
The hearths were lined with Holland picture tiles
Of olden stories of enchanters' wiles;
And knights, stiff-seeming, upon stiffer steeds
Hasting to help fair ladies at their needs;
And bible tales, of prophets and of kings;
And faery ones, of midnight, meadow rings
Whereon, at mild star-rise, the wanton elves
Dance, having cleared the grass blades for themselves
As we men clear a forest; and besides
Of phantom castles and of woodland rides,
Of convent cloisters and religious veils
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