noon
And Tweed and Tyke , the beasts that perish , put their noses into the porridge-pot to see if Kit Kennedy had left anything . There was not so much as a single grain of meal . _ O nest , leaf-hidden , Dryad 's green alcove , Half-islanded by hill-brook 's seaward rush , My lovers still bower , where none may come but I ! Where in clear morning prime and high noon hush With only some old poet 's book I lie ! Sometimes a lonely dove Calleth her mate , or droning honey thieves Weigh down the bluebell 's nodding campanule ; And ever singeth through the twilight cool Low voice of water and the stir of leaves _ . _ Perfect are August 's golden afternoons ! All the rough way across the fells , a peal Of joy-bells ring , not heard by alien ear .