Page:Poems (Edward Thomas, 1917).djvu/68

 In the heat

Of Midsummer:

Strange as the races

Of dead and unborn:

Strange and sweet

Equally,

And familiar,

To the eye,

As the dearest faces

That a man knows,

And as lost homes are:

But though older far

Than oldest yew,—

As our hills are, old,—

Worn new

Again and again:

Young as our streams

After rain:

And as dear

As the earth which you prove

That we love.

Make me content

With some sweetness

From Wales

Whose nightingales

Have no wings,—

From Wiltshire and Kent

And Herefordshire,

And the villages there,—

From the names, and the things

No less. 62