There's a far road off to Faringdon,
Under the downs it goes;
Into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood
The dim road shadows and glows.
My cycle hums to Faringdon,
Hums like a joyful bee,
Through dropping shy light of green tree twilight,
Music of wind and tree.
Springtime, bluebells, Faringdon,
And a cycle through all three;
Great shadow reaches of English beeches,
Downs far down to the sea.
There's a far road down to Faringdon.
There no more I ride.
The boys hear mostly a rider ghostly,
The girls they run and hide.
But that's my ghost in Faringdon,
All year cycling it goes.
Into the fine wood, the beech, the pine wood,
The dim ghost shadows and glows.
Salonica, 1916