Читать книгу Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various - Страница 28

  On alien ground, breathing an alien air,

  A Roman stood, far from his ancient home,

  And gazing, murmured, "Ah, the hills are fair,

  But not the hills of Rome!"

  Descendant of a race to Romans-kin,

  Where the old son of Empire stood, I stand.

  The self-same rocks fold the same valley in,

  Untouched of human hand.

  Over another shines the self-same star,

  Another heart with nameless longing fills,

  Crying aloud, "How beautiful they are,

  But not our English hills!"