Between twin banks the Rother
With slow contentment goes;
Bush-sprinkled lakes spread this side and the other
Flowing as the wind flows.

High on the upper lands
White-cowled oasthouses stare
And piled poles in hop gardens seem like hands
Whose fingers point in prayer.

Gathered by stormy weather
The rooks and sea-gulls meet
Like black angels and white mingling together
At God's last judgment-seat.