By Thurstan Bassett ©
My heart is in the hills of home,
And in the winds of March,
It sings within Tintagel’s foam
And Gloucester’s soaring arch.
It floats amid the rain-wet trees
And golden fields of corn,
O’er silent heights and marshy leas
By fog-bound shores forlorn.
It races o’er the sun-swept Fells,
And walks the secret lanes,
It runs upon the open Downs
Where Saxons fought with Danes.
It laughs along the pebbled brooks
By ancient timber’d inns,
It dances with the wind-blown rooks
And daffodils of spring.
It lives within the knotted oak
And burrows with the mole,
To ‘list the mystic charms and spells
Of England’s wond’rous soul:
‘Tis lore that only her children know;
The Chosen Ones so fair,
And they alone can understand
Her invocations rare.
But while these live we, too, shall live
In high, immortal skies;
For if her songs such life can give
Can England ever die?
Photo by Mick Carver ©