Going Home

Under the young moon's slender shield With the wind's cool lips on mine, I went home from the Rabitty Field As the clocks were striking nine.

The yews were dark in the level light, The thorn-trees dropped with gold, And a partridge called where the dew was white In the grass on the edge of the fold.

O, had your hand been in my hand As the long chalk-road I trod, The green hills of the lovely land Had seemed the hills of God.