Her flooded rivers spreading like the sea.
I love to drive adown her country lanes,
With longing glance piercing the shades of night,
Sighing for rest, to catch thro’ distant panes
The glimmering of some mournful village light.
I love to see the smoke of smouldering stalk;
To watch the waggons o’er the wide waste wend;
Or, on hillside, ’mid yellowing fields, to mark
The pair of birch trees their white arms extend.
With a delight, unknown except to few,