  Scarce is my life more dear to me, Brief tutor of oblivion, Than fields below the rookery That comfortably looks upon The little street of Piddington. I never think of Avon’s meadows, Ryton woods or Rydal mere, Or moon-tide moulding Cotswold shadows, But I know that half the fear Of death’s indifference is here. I love my land. No heart can know The patriot’s mystery, until It aches as mine for woods ablow In Gloucestershire with daffodil, Or Bicester brakes that violets fill. No man can tell what passion surges For the house of his nativity In the patriot’s blood, until he purges His grosser mood of jealousy, And comes to meditate with me Of gifts of earth that stamp his brain As mine the pools of Ludlow mill, The hazels fencing Trilly’s Lane, The ferry under Elsfield hill. These are what England is to me, Not empire, nor the name of her Ranging from pole to tropic sea. These are the soil in which I bear All that I have of character. That men my fellows near and far May live in like communion, Is all I pray; all pastures are The best beloved beneath the sun; I have my own; I envy none. |
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