England’s cliffs are white like milk,
But England’s fields are green;
The grey fogs creep across the moors,
But warm suns stand between.
And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.
Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
The hedges are aglow;
The daisies climb the windy hills
Till all grow white like snow.
And when the slim, pale moon slides down, and dreamy night is near,
There’s a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.
Poppies burn in Italy,
And suns grow round and high;
The black pines of Posilipo
Are gaunt upon the sky-
And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.
Tell me why the meadow-lands
Become so warm in June;
Why the tangled roses breathe
So softly to the moon;
And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?
Weary, we have wandered back-
And we have travelled far-
Above the storms and over seas
Gleamed ever one bright star-
O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round, green fields of home.
(Lloyd Roberts)
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Based on Topics: Night Poems, Home Poems, Snow Poems, Singing Poems, England Poems, English PoemsBased on Keywords: red-lipped, meadow-lands, posilipo