Who has not loved, at such an hour,
Upon that heath, in birchen bower,
Lull'd in the poet's dreamy mood,
Its wild and sunny solitude?
While o'er the waste of purple ling 
You mark'd a sultry glimmering;
Silence herself there seems to sleep,
Wrapp'd in a slumber long and deep,
Where slowly stray those lonely sheep
Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom,
And gleaming of the scatter'd broom.
Love you not, then, to list and hear
The crackling of the gorse-flowers near,
Pouring an orange-scented tide
Of fragrance o'er the desert wide?
To hear the buzzard whimp'ring shrill,
Hovering above you high and still?
The Forest Minstrel, and Other Poems
By William Howitt, Mary Botham Hewitt
File:Arthur Streeton - Early summer - gorse in bloom - Google Art Project.jpg
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