The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the
shore at Truro.
I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your
silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . .
They said: Come along! They said: Leave your
pebbles on the sand and come along, it's long after
sunset!
The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along
by Long Nook, the wind's died down!
They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your
shells, too, and come along, we'll find you another
beach like the beach at Truro.
Let me listen to wind in the ash ... it sounds like
surf on the shore.