  Little did I dream, England, that you bore me Under the Cotswold hills beside the water meadows, To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders And your enfolding seas. I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service, Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty, As through a child’s face one may see the clear spirit Miraculously shining. Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly, Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river Muddy and strongly-flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets Safe in its bosom. Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs.... And uses consecrate. Think on me too, O Mother, who wrest my soul to serve you In strange and fearful ways beyond your encircling waters; None but you can know my heart, its tears and sacrifice; None, but you, repay. |
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