To men now of her blood and race
England’s a little garden place,
Dear as a woman is, and she
The Queen of every loyalty.
To dwellers ‘mid the ice and snows,
She is their secret garden rose
From which that bee, their heart, sucks off
For the cold Winter honey enough.
To toilers ‘mid the sultry plains,
Sick for her tempered suns and rains,
She is the thought that wets their eyes
And hearts with dew of Paradise.
Most loved of those who never knew
Her green o’ the silk and her soft blue,
Her mild inviolate fields that be
Hedged with the sweet-briar of the sea.
Sweet in their dreams her Summers are,
Her tranquil nights of moon and star,
The love-songs of her nightingales;
A water-spring that never fails.
Amid their unending distances
Her little crowded sweetness is
A dream of rest, a dream of prayer,
With homes and children everywhere.
Touch her — and they are all on fire,
This little land of their desire
Seen in a mirage far away
With light upon her night and day.