To Charles Furse.
Bright Hellas lies far hence,
Far the Sicilian sea:
But England's excellence
Is fair enough for me.
I love and understand
One joy: with staff and scrip
To walk a wild west land,
The winds my fellowship.
For all the winds will blow,
Across a lonely face,
Rough wisdom, good to know:
An high and heartening grace.
Wind, on the open down!
Riding the wind, the moon:
From town to country town,
I go from noon to noon.
Cities of ancient spires,
Glorious against high noon;
August at sunset fires;
Austere beneath the moon.
Old, rain-washed, red-roofed streets,
Fresh with the soft South-west:
Where dreaming memory meets
Brave men long since at rest.
Evening, from out the green
Wet boughs of clustered lime.
Pours fragrance rich and keen,
Balming the stilly time.
Old ramparts, gray and stern;
But comely clothed upon
With wealth of moss and fern,
And scarlet snapdragon.
Harbours of swaying masts,
Beneath the vesper star:
Each high-swung lantern casts
A quivering ray afar.