What is there here, in these small country places, Sleepy and still beneath a cloudy sky, Where slow men plod, with rain upon their faces, That for their keeping none has feared to die? Green are the meadows, in their patchwork making Patterns with fields knee-deep in golden grain Russet and yellow, ripened for the taking, Apples are heavy on the bough again. Normans have worshipped where the broad grey tower Shelters the quiet sleeping of its own, Cottages cluster, window-sills a-flower, Leaning to little paths of cobble-stone. What is there here, that for its happy living Men have not feared to die from age to age? Beauty that tears the heart, so great its giving, England, that is our children's heritage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WOOING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR PAMPINEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 38 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HALBERT AND HOB by ROBERT BROWNING THE WANDERER: PROLOGUE. PART 1 by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON EPIGRAM WRITTEN AT INVERARY by ROBERT BURNS |