And hear the plover's plaintive cry above the common at Holtye,
When redly glows the dusky sky and all the woods are still.
Oh, I remember as of old, the copse aflame with russet gold,
The sweet half-rotten scent of mould, the while I stand and hark
To unseen woodland life that stirs before the clamant gamekeepers,
Till, sudden, out a pheasant whirrs to cries of "Mark cock, mark!"
And there are aged inns that sell the mellow, cool October ale,
What time one tells an oft-told tale around the friendly fires,
Until the clock with muffled chime asserts that it is closing time,
And o'er the fields now white with rime the company retires.
How long ago and far it seems, this peaceful country of our dreams,
Of fruitful fields and purling streams—the England that we know:
Who holds within her sea-girt ring all that we love, and love can bring;
Ah, Life were but a little thing to give to keep her so!
