The English Trees.

Never again shall breath of hawthorn in a morn,
Song of a thrush forlorn
Give them such dreams of Rosalind as stray
Lithe-limbed, bare-footed, half a world away.
Dreams shall not trouble their eyes. But on our shore
The English trees are stranger trees no more—
The golden youth that signed our fathers’ page
Won all green England for our heritage.

And this: