Eternal England Poem by Thurstan Bassett

My heart is in the hills of home,
And in the winds of March,
It sings within Tintagel's foam,
And Gloucester's soaring arch.

It floats amid the rain-wet trees,
And golden fields of corn,
O'er Kentish heights and marshy leas
By fog-bound shores forlorn.

It races o'er the sun-swept Fells,
And walks the secret lanes,
It runs upon the open Downs,
Where Saxons fought with Danes.

It laughs along the pebbled brooks,
By ancient timber'd inns,
It dances with the wind-blown rooks
And daffodils of Spring.

It lives within the knotted oak,
And burrows with the mole,
To list' the mystic spells and charms
Of England's quivering soul:
‘Tis lore that only her children know,
The Chosen Ones so fair,
And they alone can understand
Her invocations rare.

But while these live, we too shall live
In high immortal skies:
For if her songs such life can give,
Can England ever die?