ENGLISH HILLS

O that I were

Where breaks the pure cold light

On English hills,

And peewits rising cry,

And gray is all the sky.

Or at evening there

When the faint slow light stays,

And far below

Sleeps the last lingering sound,

And night leans all round.

O then, O there

‘ Tis English haunted ground.

The diligent stars

Creep out, watch, and smile;

The wise moon lingers awhile.

For surely there

Heroic shapes are moving,

Visible thoughts,

Passions, things divine,

Clear beneath clear star-shine.

O that I were

Again on English hills,

Seeing between

Laborious villages

Her cool dark loveliness.