Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/56

 VII

ITTLE did I dream, England, that you bore me

Under the Cotswold Hills beside the water meadows

To do you dreadful service, here, beyond your borders

And your enfolding seas.

I was a dreamer ever, and bound to your dear service

Meditating deep, I thought on your secret beauty,

As through a child's face one may see the clear spirit

Miraculously shining.

Your hills not only hills, but friends of mine and kindly,

Your tiny knolls and orchards hidden beside the river

Muddy and strongly flowing, with shy and tiny streamlets

Safe in its bosom.

Now these are memories only, and your skies and rushy sky-pools

Fragile mirrors easily broken by moving airs;

But deep in my heart for ever goes on your daily being

And uses consecrate.

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