My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away,
It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May.
Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside
Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride;
Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note
Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat.
O England, island England, if it has been my lot
To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not,
I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows,
The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose,
The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled,
The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world:
I love thy moss-deep grasses, thy great untortured trees,
The cliffs that wall thy havens, the weed-scents of thy seas.
The dreamy river reaches, the quiet English homes,
The milky path of sorrel down which the springtide comes.
Oh land so loved through length of years, so tended and caressed,
The land that never stranger wronged nor foeman dared to waste,
Remember those thou speedest forth round all the world to be
Thy witness to the nations, thy warders on the sea!
And keep for those who leave thee and find no better place,
The olden smile of welcome, the unchanged mother face!
Sir Rennell Rodd.
