Читать книгу Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various - Страница 27

  Tell the tune his feet beat

  On the ground all day—

  Black-burnt ground and green grass

  Seamed with rocks of grey—

  "England," "England," "England,"

  That one word they say.

  Now they tread the beech-mast,

  Now the ploughland's clay,

  Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May.

  Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay,

  Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray,

  Still it's "England," "England,"

  "England" all the way!