I wondered lonely as a hound
that checks on high o'er Crook o'Lune
When all once I saw a crowd
A host of garlic and bluebells
Above the river, beneath Full Moon
Fluttering and dancing along the Lune

For oft when in the Bull I lie
In vacant or in drunken mood
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of Thwaite-itude
Then LVH3 with pleasure swells
to hash amongst the wood of bells.

(Sorry Mr Wordsworth!)

OnOn