Where the bog ends, there, where the ground lips, lovely is love, not lonely. Land is love, round with it, where the hand is; wide with love, cleared scrubland, grain on a coin. Oh, the wheatfield, the rock-bound rubble; the untouched hills as a thigh smooth; the meadow. Not only the poor soil lovely, the outworn prairie, but the green upspringing, the lark-land, the promontory. A lung-born land, this, a breath spilling, scanned by the valvular heart, the field glasses. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MOTHER NATURE by EMILY DICKINSON ECHOES: 4. INVICTUS by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY SONG: THE STRICKEN DEER by THOMAS MOORE THE NEW HUDIBRAS by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB THE PRISONER by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING EPITAPH ON NICOL OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH by ROBERT BURNS |