I

Crouched where the open upland billows down Into the valley where the river flows, She is as any other country town, That little lives or marks or hears or knows.

And she can teach but little. She has not The wonder and the surging and the roar Of striving cities. Only things forgot That once were beautiful, but now no more,

Has she to give us. Yet to one or two She first brought knowledge, and it was for her To open first our eyes, until we knew How great, immeasurably great, we were.

I, who have walked along her downs in dreams, And known her tenderness, and felt her might, And sometimes by her meadows and her streams Have drunk deep-storied secrets of delight,

Have had my moments there, when I have been Unwittingly aware of something more. Some beautiful aspect, that I had seen With mute unspeculative eyes before;

Have had my times, when, though the earth did wear Her self-same trees and grasses, I could see The revelation that is always there, But somehow is not always clear to me.