  Go up, go up your ways of varying love, Take each his darling path wherever lie The central fires of secret memory; Whether Helvellyn tower the lakes above; Or black Plinlimmon time and tempest prove; Or any English heights of bravery. I will go climb my little hills to see Severn, and Malverns, May Hill’s tiny grove. No Everest is here, no peaks of power Astonish men. But on the winding ways White in the frost-time, blinding in full June blaze, A man may take all quiet heart’s delight— Village and quarry, taverns and many a tower That saw Armada beacons set alight. |
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