A gleam of brass through the open door,
Of walled-in bed of carven oak,
Of polished flags upon the floor,
Neath heavy rafters black with smoke;
The song of the wheel as, cannily,
The wife spins her flax in Brittany.
V
The sabots clatter down the street,
The church bell sounds across the bay,
The brown sails of the fishing fleet
Grow black against the dying day;
While sun and 'peace sink glowingly
Upon the land of Brittany.