RODD
CVII
SPRING THOUGHTS
My England, island England, such leagues and leagues away,
It’s years since I was with thee, when April wanes to May.
Years since I saw the primrose, and watched the brown hillside
Put on white crowns of blossom and blush like April’s bride;
Years since I heard thy skylark, and caught the throbbing note
Which all the soul of springtide sends through the blackbird’s throat.
O England, island England, if it has been my lot
To live long years in alien lands, with men who love thee not,
I do but love thee better who know each wind that blows,
The wind that slays the blossom, the wind that buds the rose,
The wind that shakes the taper mast and keeps the topsail furled,
The wind that braces nerve and arm to battle with the world: