Chapter 15

Away in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass, And patiently would pluck the grass, Patiently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn…