ON BIRDLIP

I’ve tramped a score of miles to-day And now on Cotswold stand, Wondering if in any way Their owners understand How all those little gold fields I see And the great green woods beyond Have given themselves to me, to me Who own not an inch of land. Because I loved with deep desire, Wooing all as I walked, This noble country by tree and spire Taught (as if music talked) How Beauty is never bought or sold, But freely given to them Who worship more than crowns of gold Her dew-bright diadem. Now all that under open heaven I see of arable Or pasture land to me is given, As runs the parable— “To him that hath not——” Even so, For all we love is ours While the little streams of Cotswold flow, Swaying forget-me-not flowers.