In The Cotswolds

Yes, it is beautiful, this old, old land:
These houses root their being in the earth.
These walls, these stones, share in a larger birth
With strong-set trees and pointed blades that stand
About the slopes, the russet furrows; and
Join in the deep impulse that through the girth
Of hill and valley's limit, moulds ith 'worth—
So meet for love, to hold within the hand!

I tread these roads, and know once more the race
Of blood, and tissue's balance with the bones;
A wind strikes-and my opened eyes are blind
With a gazing on an unseen distant place;
My deaf ears hear Orongo-rongo's stones—
Broom bursts on wind-swept hills within my mind.

—J.C.B.