The Hayloft
by Robert Louis Stevenson

Through all the pleasant meadow-side 
           The grass grew shoulder-high, 
Till the shining scythes went far and wide 
           And cut it down to dry. 

Those green and sweetly smelling crops 
           They led the wagons home; 
And they piled them here in mountain tops 
           For mountaineers to roam. 

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, 
           Mount Eagle and Mount High;-- 
The mice that in these mountains dwell, 
           No happier are than I! 

Oh, what a joy to clamber there, 
           Oh, what a place for play, 
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, 
           The happy hills of hay!