36. CHANCLEBURY RING
Reading edition
Say what you will, there is not in the world A nobler sight than from this upper down. No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled From its Creator's hand as with a frown; But a green plain on which green hills look down Trim as a garden plot. No other hue Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue. Dear checker-work of woods, the Sussex weald. If a name thrills me yet of things of earth, That name is thine! How often I have fled To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field, Each lag, each pasture,—fields which gave me birth And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead.
Wilfrid Blunt.