England's cliffs are white like milk,
But England's fields are green;
The grey fogs creep across the moors,
But warm suns stand between.
And not so far from London town, beyond the brimming street,
A thousand little summer winds are singing in the wheat.
Red-lipped poppies stand and burn,
The hedges are aglow;
The daisies climb the windy hills
Till all grow white like snow.
And when the slim, pale moon slides up, and dreamy night is near,
There's a whisper in the beeches for lonely hearts to hear.
Poppies burn in Italy,
And suns grow round and high;
The black pines of Posilipo
Are gaunt upon the sky--
And yet I know an English elm beside an English lane
That calls me through the twilight and the miles of misty rain.
Tell me why the meadow-lands
Become so warm in June;
Why the tangled roses breathe
So softly to the moon;
And when the sunset bars come down to pass the feet of day,
Why the singing thrushes slide between the sprigs of May?
Weary, we have wandered back--
And we have travelled far--
Above the storms and over seas
Gleamed ever one bright star--
O England! when our feet grow cold and will no longer roam,
We see beyond your milk-white cliffs the round,
green fields of home.