I saw him straightway on the hill
Where he lay in a spinney on the high dell 
Shuffling his body under the blue summer sky
To fit his wings and arches and bumps
Into each mossy ripple of the warm peaty earth,
His head half-raised on a wind-worn fluted root
Of West wind-blown May on the fell
As if he were late returned from Gaul 
And looking about him for wood sorrel
To make a garland for his Queen
For he was ridgeway chief
and master of these high places,
or so it seemed in that moment of magic
when I heard him in the stories of my mind
and I imagined he had climbed over the mountains
and by all the lakes and leys of ancient Britain
’til now above us was heaven
And Windermere lay at our feet
And the warm breeze shook his tree
And blossom came upon me
like an idea in paradise
flurrying down, floriferous,
indescribably beautiful.