Shadows on the Down

When daffodils danced in Chuck Hatch, and white clouds

Drew their own shadowy purple across the hills,

Darkening the valley where the small flint church

The Saxon built stood roofless to the sun,

Believe me, Memory, it was not a shadow!

No shadow of a cloud you saw that day

Flowing across the smooth deep-breasted downs,

But something darker, sweeter,—the wild thyme

Of Sussex, flowing like a river of joy

That tossed a hundred skylarks up.

                                                  No shadow,

Believe me, Memory, but the purple thyme

Flowing by windmill and by wattled fold

On to the white chalk coast and sparkling sea.