Roman road, a line of trees

wolds valley ways wooded and streamed

with lakes of a sudden after a chattering fall

with ducks and swans and swallows o'er all.

May and honeysuckle midnight perfumes

while animal slots walk a thousand greens

and the west wind whispers forever free

this is the land in the heart of me.

Gentle hills ripple and roll 

crystal streams run to the sea

past gorse bushes golden in the dell

high clouds above billow and swell.

Hidden cottages of the valley

closely guarded by silent trees

are stalwart havens, precious bowers

where peace surrounds our golden hours.