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!