Chapter III

They who dwell in the southlands say,
Little green England of mine, that you
Are misty and colourless, cold and grey.
If it be true
And they can know it who dwell afar,
You only are grey as diamonds are.

To-day in the warm soft evening light
You are a zone of delicate tints;
On the rim of the sea the sun is bright,
And shoots and glints
Sparkles of gold through its splendid blue.
Who say you are colourless know not you.

Opal gleams on the sunset sky
Where a wave of the liquid sapphire flows;
One bright cloud on its flood drifts by
Of pearl and rose;
The air is radiant and crystalline
As rare jewels delved from a fairy mine.

A breeze just shivers the green of the corn
And sweeps it into a silver sea;
Infinite sensitive shades new-born
On hill and lea
Over the land's lap flit and pass
Like elusive tints in Venetian glass

Nature has painted you in pastel,
You are her palette of tender hues,
Little green England of mine, where dwell
Change, and infuse,
The million lights of the polar-star,
And you only are grey as diamonds are.