A Song of England

There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as the fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.

There is a song of England that only lovers know;So rare it is and fair it is,O, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow,So cold and sweet and sunny,So full of hidden honey,So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blowAlong the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England;When flowers are at their vespersAnd full of little whispers,The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.

There is a song of England that only love may sing,So sure it is and pure it is;And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing,And with the sky-lark hoversAbove the tryst of lovers,Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely SpringThrough all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England,Until the way enwound herWith sprays of May, and crowned herWith stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.

There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest:The calm of it and balm of itAre breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the WestFrom the cottage doors that nightlyCast their welcome out so brightlyOn the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressedBy the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England:And from the restful sighingOf the sleepers that are lyingWith the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast.

There is a song of England that wanders on the wind;So sad it is and glad it isThat men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind,For the lowlands and the highlandsOf the unforgotten islands,For the Islands of the Blesséd and the rest they cannot findAs they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England;Little feet that danced to meet themAnd the lips that used to greet them,And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.

There is a song of England that thrills the beating bloodWith burning cries and yearningTides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood;Aspirations of the creatureTow'rds the unity of Nature;Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewedIn the men that live for England, live and love and die for England:By the light of their desireThey shall blindly blunder higher,To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good.

There is a song of England that only heaven can hear;So gloriously victorious,It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Year;Till even the cloudy shadowsThat wander o'er her meadowsIn silent purple harmonies declare His glory there,Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England;While heaven rolls and rangesThrough all the myriad changesThat mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear.

There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;So sweet it is and fleet it isThat none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,And regal as her mountains,And radiant as her fountainsOf rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can flingAgainst the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,Could more than seem to dream of it,Or catch one flying gleam of it,Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.