England
By Walter De La Mare
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.