English poem
(To J. W. H.)
by Ivor Gurney
Where the new-turned ploughland runs to clean Edges of sudden grass-land, lovely, green-- Music, music clings, music exhales, And inmost fragrance of a thousand tales. There the heart lifts, the soul takes flight to sing High at Heaven-gate; but loth for entering Lest there such brown and green it never find; Nor feel the sting Of such a beauty left so far behind.