Poetry
A Farewell
THE morning wakes across the fields this day that I must go, Washing with gold the mist-grey skies, and the grey tors below,
Where the white fingers of a stream are raised to catch the glow.
Next year I shall not see the Spring dawn on the English shires, Nor gorse that flings its flames across the hills like beacon fires, Nor find the foxgloves in the vales like little village spires.
Those alien trees and stranger grass upon that waiting shore — How will they look ? All ! All I know—the Devon trees once more Arc crowned with may, and never broke a fairer Spring before.
Oh wild, wild roses drenched in dew, and sweet with sun and rain, Shall I not find you reaching arms in every little lane, Reminding me of'England's rose until I come again ?
fdatit.roarE Wirsor4.
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