England’s Fields

    England’s cliffs are white like milk,
      But England’s fields are green;
    The grey fogs creep across the moors,
      But warm suns stand between. 
  And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
  A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.

    Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
      The hedges are aglow;
    The daisies climb the windy hills
      Till all grow white like snow. 
  And when the slim, pale moon slides up, and dreamy night is near,
  There’s a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.

    Poppies burn in Italy,
      And suns grow round and high;
    The black pines of Posilipo
      Are gaunt upon the sky—­
  And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
  That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.

    Tell me why the meadow-lands
      Become so warm in June;
    Why the tangled roses breathe
      So softly to the moon;
  And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
  Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?

Weary, we have wandered back—­
And we have travelled far—­
Above the storms and over seas
Gleamed ever one bright star—­
O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round,
green fields of home.

The Madness of Winds

On all the upland pastures the strong winds gallop free,
Trampling down the flowered stalks sleepy in the sun,
Whirl away in blue and gold all their finery,
Till naked crouch the gentle hosts where the winds have run.

  Along the rocking hillsides shaggy heads are bent;
    Out upon the tawny plains tortured dust leaps high;
  The red roof of the sunset is torn away and rent,
    And chaos lifts the heavy sea and bends the hollow sky.

  The winds are drunk with freedom—­the crowded valleys roar;
    The madness surges through their veins, and when they gallop out
  The black rain follows close behind, the pale sun flees before,
    And recklessly across the world goes all the broken rout.

  I was striding on the uplands when the host was running mad,
    I saw them threshing through the leaves and daisy tops below,
  And as their feet came up the hill, my tired heart grew glad—­
    Till at the music of their throats I knew that I must go.

  So the winds are now my brothers, they have joined me to their ranks,
    And when their rampant strength wells up and drives them singing forth,
  I am with them when they roll the fog across the oily banks,
    And tumble out the sleeping bergs that crowd beyond the north.

  The woods are drenched with moonlight and every leafs awake;
    The little beads of dew sit white on every twig and blade;
  A thousand stars are scattered thick beneath the forest lake;
    We pass—­with only laughter for the havoc we have made.