Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

(1840 - 1922 / England)

Chanclebury Ring - Poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

Say what you will, there is not in the world
A nobler sight than from this upper Down.
No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled
From its Creator's hand as with a frown;
But a green plain on which green hills look down
Trim as a garden plot. No other hue
Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown
Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue.
Dear checker--work of woods, the Sussex Weald!
If a name thrills me yet of things of earth,
That name is thine. How often I have fled
To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field,
Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth
And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead.


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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 13, 2010



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