  So Thou hast left us and our meadows, Lord, Who hast blessed us and our meadows— Lord of the sorrel-hearted hay, Lord of the pollened flowers of May. From our fields Thou hast ascended, Passing into the anthered light Beyond the sun, by the winds attended— And the Sussex fields are white With daisies, and the diadem Of the hawthorn crowns the hedge, And at the blue pond’s reedy edge, Like a broidered, silken hem The yellow irises are blown. Lord, Thou art gone, and gone alone. Dost Thou think of us and our meadows, Lord, Who hast left us and our meadows? In shining pastures of the sky Thou walkest, Lord, ascended high. The stars are flowers about Thy feet, And looking up to Thee we see The River flowing silently— The Milky River, broad and sweet As Rother River here below, While planets the dim marshes strow, And constellations flower and fade.... O Lord, Thou hast Thy country there, The fields and meadows of the sky, The dear, divine, undying glade. At night we too walk in Thy meadows, We walk beside Thee in Thy meadows. At midnight I may hear Thy call, And ride to Thee on the moon’s light— To where the living waters fall, And the unfading fields are bright. The stars are flowers about our feet, And at my side Thou art the sweet Perfumed, eternal Breath of May.... With a sob the pale-eyed day Wakens at the Rother’s mouth, And back to earthly fields I go, And back to earthly toil, and slow Hot days of the slow, drawling South, Toiling to keep the fields alive, For our poor meadows cannot thrive On just the memory of Thy feet, Which trod them once and found them sweet. Our tears, our sweat, must give them life, For Thou, our Lord, hast gone on high To golden countries of the sky, To golden fields of golden stars, Beyond the echo of our strife.... Yet there, upon the shining hill, Thou dreamest of our meadows still, And, Lord, we have Thy promise plain That Thou wilt walk in them again.
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