Various - Poems of To-Day: an Anthology стр 6.

  Oh shall I never never be home again!
  Meadows of England shining in the rain
  Spread wide your daisied lawns: your ramparts green
  With briar fortify, with blossom screen
  Till my far morningand O streams that slow
  And pure and deep through plains and playlands go,
  For me your love and all your kingcups store,
  Anddark militia of the southern shore,
  Old fragrant friendspreserve me the last lines
  Of that long saga which you sang me, pines,
  When, lonely boy, beneath the chosen tree
  I listened, with my eyes upon the sea.

  O traitor pines, you sang what life has found
  The falsest of fair tales.
  Earth blew a far-horn prelude all around,
  That native music of her forest home,
  While from the sea's blue fields and syren dales
  Shadows and light noon spectres of the foam
  Riding the summer gales
  On aery viols plucked an idle sound.

  Hearing you sing, O trees,
  Hearing you murmur, "There are older seas,
  That beat on vaster sands,
  Where the wise snailfish move their pearly towers
  To carven rocks and sculptured promont'ries,"
  Hearing you whisper, "Lands
  Where blaze the unimaginable flowers."

  Beneath me in the valley waves the palm,
  Beneath, beyond the valley, breaks the sea;
  Beneath me sleep in mist and light and calm
  Cities of Lebanon, dream-shadow-dim,
  Where Kings of Tyre and Kings of Tyre did rule
  In ancient days in endless dynasty,
  And all around the snowy mountains swim
  Like mighty swans, afloat in heaven's pool.

  But I will walk upon the wooded hill
  Where stands a grove, O pines, of sister pines,
  And when the downy twilight droops her wing
  And no sea glimmers and no mountain shines
  My heart shall listen still.
  For pines are gossip pines the wide world through
  And full of runic tales to sigh or sing.
  'Tis ever sweet through pines to see the sky
  Blushing a deeper gold or darker blue.
  'Tis ever sweet to lie
  On the dry carpet of the needles brown,
  And though the fanciful green lizard stir
  And windy odours light as thistledown
  Breathe from the lavdanon and lavender,
  Half to forget the wandering and pain,
  Half to remember days that have gone by,
  And dream and dream that I am home again!

  Grow old and die, rich Day,
    Over some English field
  Chartered to come away
    What time to Death you yield!
  Pass, frost-white ghost, and then
  Come forth to banish'd men!

  I see the stubble's sheen,
    The mist and ruddled leaves,
  Here where the new Spring's green
    For her first rain-drops grieves.
  Here beechen leaves drift red
  Last week in England dead.

  For English eyes' delight
    Those Autumn ghosts go free
  Ghost of the field hoar-white,
    Ghost of the crimson tree.
  Grudge them not, England dear,
  To us thy banished here!

  Tell the tune his feet beat
  On the ground all day
  Black-burnt ground and green grass
  Seamed with rocks of grey
  "England," "England," "England,"
  That one word they say.
  Now they tread the beech-mast,
  Now the ploughland's clay,
  Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May.
  Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay,
  Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray,
  Still it's "England," "England,"
  "England" all the way!

  On alien ground, breathing an alien air,
  A Roman stood, far from his ancient home,
  And gazing, murmured, "Ah, the hills are fair,
  But not the hills of Rome!"

  Descendant of a race to Romans-kin,
  Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand.
  The self-same rocks fold the same valley in,
  Untouched of human hand.

  Over another shines the self-same star,
  Another heart with nameless longing fills,
  Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are,
  But not our English hills!"

  He walked in glory on the hills;
    We dalesmen envied from afar
  The heights and rose-lit pinnacles
    Which placed him nigh the evening star.

  Upon the peaks they found him dead;
    And now we wonder if he sighed
  For our low grass beneath his head,
    For our rude huts, before he died.

  In the highlands, in the country places,
  Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
    And the young fair maidens
      Quiet eyes;
  Where essential silence cheers and blesses,
  And for ever in the hill-recesses
    Her more lovely music
      Broods and dies.

  O to mount again where erst I haunted;
  Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,
    And the low green meadows
      Bright with sward;
  And when even dies, the million-tinted,
  And the night has come, and planets glinted,
    Lo, the valley hollow
      Lamp-bestarred!

  O to dream, O to awake and wander
  There, and with delight to take and render,
    Through the trance of silence,
      Quiet breath;
  Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
  Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
    Only winds and rivers,
      Life and death.

  Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping,
    Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat;
  Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping,
    And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.

  Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways,
    (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!)
  Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways,
    Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!

  London streets are goldah, give me leaves a-glinting
    'Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun!
  London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting
    God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!

  Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing,
    Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells!
  Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing
    Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells.