Breadth of the English shires, Hummock and kame and mead, Tang of the reeking byres, Land of the English breed,-- A man and his land make a man and his creed.
Leisurely flocks and herds, Cool-eyed cattle that come Mildly to wonted words, Swine that in orchards roam,-- A man and his beasts make a man and his home.
Children sturdy and flaxen Shouting in brotherly strife, Like the land they are Saxon, Sons of a man and his wife,-- For a man and his loves make a man and his life.
JOY have I had of life this vigorous day Since sunrise when I took the wealden way, And my fair country as I rapid strode Lay round the turn of the familiar road In mists diaphanous as seas in foam.
And all the orchards cried me welcome home.
I drove the spade that turned the heavy loam, Bending the winter to the needs of spring, The soft air winnowing The thistledown that blew along the hedge. A little moorhen rippled in the sedge; A distant sheep-dog barked; the day was still, For summer’s ghost in winter lay upon the hill. I worked in peace; an aeroplane above Crooned through the heaven coloured like a dove.
Within the house I lit a fire And coaxed the friendly kettle on to boil. My boots were heavy with the wealden soil, My hunger eager from the glow of toil. Fresh bread had I; brown eggs; a little meat; Clear water, and an apple sweet. Freedom I drank for my delirious wine, And Shelley gave me company divine. What more could heart desire?
And when the orange of the sunset burned, I laid aside my tools and townward turned, Seeing across the uplands of the Weald The ploughteams straining on the half-brown field. I sang aloud; my limbs were rich with health, As brooding winter rich with summer’s wealth.
HOW do I love you, beech trees, in the autumn, Your stone-grey columns a cathedral nave Processional above the earth’s brown glory!
I was a child, and loved the knurly tangle Of roots that coiled above a scarp like serpents, Where I might hide my treasure with the squirrels.
I was a child, and splashed my way in laughter Through drifts of leaves, where underfoot the beechnuts Split with crisp crackle to my great rejoicing.
Red are the wooded slopes below Shock Tavern, Red is the bracken on the sandy Furze-field, Red are the herds of deer by Bo-Pit Meadows,