Alfred Noyes

A Song of England

There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;
  So sweet it is and fleet it is
That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,
  And regal as her mountains,
  And radiant as the fountains
Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling
Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,
  Could more than seem to dream of it,
  Or catch one flying gleam of it,
Above the seas of England that never cease to sing.

There is a song of England that only lovers know;
  So rare it is and fair it is,
O, like a fairy rose it is upon a drift of snow,
  So cold and sweet and sunny,
  So full of hidden honey,
So like a flight of butterflies where rose and lily blow
Along the lanes of England, the leafy lanes of England;
  When flowers are at their vespers
  And full of little whispers,
The boys and girls of England shall sing it as they go.

There is a song of England that only love may sing,
  So sure it is and pure it is;
And seaward with the sea-mew it spreads a whiter wing,
  And with the sky-lark hovers
  Above the tryst of lovers,
Above the kiss and whisper that led the lovely Spring
Through all the glades of England, the ferny glades of England,
  Until the way enwound her
  With sprays of May, and crowned her
With stars of frosty blossom in a merry morris-ring.

There is a song of England that haunts her hours of rest:
  The calm of it and balm of it
Are breathed from every hedgerow that blushes to the West
  From the cottage doors that nightly
  Cast their welcome out so brightly
On the lanes where laughing children are lifted and caressed
By the tenderest hands in England, hard and blistered hands of England:
  And from the restful sighing
  Of the sleepers that are lying
With the arms of God around them on the night's contented breast.

There is a song of England that wanders on the wind;
  So sad it is and glad it is
That men who hear it madden and their eyes are wet and blind,
  For the lowlands and the highlands
  Of the unforgotten islands,
For the Islands of the Blesséd and the rest they cannot find
As they grope in dreams to England and the love they left in England;
  Little feet that danced to meet them
  And the lips that used to greet them,
And the watcher at the window in the home they left behind.

There is a song of England that thrills the beating blood
  With burning cries and yearning
Tides of hidden aspiration hardly known or understood;
  Aspirations of the creature
  Tow'rds the unity of Nature;
Sudden chivalries revealing whence the longing is renewed
In the men that live for England, live and love and die for England:
  By the light of their desire
  They shall blindly blunder higher,
To a wider, grander Kingdom and a deeper, nobler Good.

There is a song of England that only heaven can hear;
  So gloriously victorious,
It soars above the choral stars that sing the Golden Year;
  Till even the cloudy shadows
  That wander o'er her meadows
In silent purple harmonies declare His glory there,
Along the hills of England, the billowy hills of England;
  While heaven rolls and ranges
  Through all the myriad changes
That mirror God in music to the mortal eye and ear.

_There is a song of England that none shall ever sing;
  So sweet it is and fleet it is
That none whose words are not as fleet as birds upon the wing,
  And regal as her mountains,
  And radiant as her fountains
Of rainbow-coloured sea-spray that every wave can fling
Against the cliffs of England, the sturdy cliffs of England,
  Could more than seem to dream of it,
  Or catch one flying gleam of it,
Above the seas of England that never cease to sing._