TELL the tune his feet beat On the ground all day -- Black-burnt ground and green grass Seamed with rocks of grey -- "England," "England," "England," That one word they say. Now they tread the beech-mast. Now the ploughland's clay, Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May. Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay, Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray, Still it's "England," "England," "England" all the way! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT DYING OF A COUGH by JOHN MILTON WELCOME GUEST by JEAN D. ARMSTRONG NIGHTINGALE AND CUCKOO by ALFRED AUSTIN POET'S CORNER by ALFRED AUSTIN GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 12 by RICHARD BARNFIELD THOMAS GRAY by ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON JERUSALEM; THE EMANATION OF THE GIANT ALBION: CHAPTER 3 by WILLIAM BLAKE |