Could hope but take me by the hand
And lead me to that dreamt of land
Oh! God in simple faith I cling
Some day you'll grant this wondrous thing.
Away from heat and sand and flies
And burning placid desert skies
Oh! Give me England's cooling rain
Her winds to blow the leaves again
I wish not wealth nor power nor fame
Nor yet a title to my name
I do not seek your marble halls
But just a roof before your walls.
Four walls that stand on English ground
With woods, and fields and hills around
Or be it on your moorland down
Or in that smoky busy town
While winter's snow stands ankle high
And tumbles from a milk-white sky
The evening finds me with a book
Beside that cozy chimney nook.
Glad music too would fill the air.
Around that happy pair,
Quiet themes and mighty chords
To shake the very flooring boards
But pause and let me bring to mind
That greater joys are there to find
It needs no man created art
To satisfy a simple heart
Yea oaks and elms in green array
I'd watch your every bend and sway
‘Tis gold that copper beech to me
Much more than just a common tree
When summer lends its gladdening rays
I'd seek the stream and mountain braes.
Thus steeped in nature's joy I'd thrive
And thank The Lord to be alive.
And when at last, I joined the dead,
I would be on neatly pillowed bed.
From thence amid the good brown earth
Beneath the land that gave me birth.
Lawrence Frankpitt Fearby
30-09-1942
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem