ENGLAND

No lovelier hills than thine have laid

My tired thoughts to rest:

No peace of lovelier valleys made

Like peace within my breast.

Thine are the woods whereto my soul,

Out of the noontide beam,

Flees for a refuge green and cool

And tranquil as a dream.

Thy breaking seas like trumpets peal;

Thy clouds — how oft have I

Watched their bright towers of silence steal

Into infinity!

My heart within me faults to roam

In thought even far from thee:

Thine be the grave whereto I come,

And thine my darkness be.