Islands
p. 84 · Read in the full issue
There’s an island set in the grey North Sea, Where hands may be tied, but thoughts are free, And hearts are bigger, they say, by half: In the face of death they can look and laugh.
In London’s mews and timbered lanes, From the Underground to the weather vanes, You may sense the Past, if you still life’s pace— And know you belong to a goodly race.
And on Yorkshire’s moors where the heather’s blue, And the sky and the dales and the mountains, too, You can drink the air, and drink again, For it’s air that tastes like the best champagne.
Through Kentish woods, and Surrey’s vales, A sense of blessed peace prevails; And Autumn’s brush with its russet and gold Shows Death in a land which is never old.
There are great grey rocks on the Cornish coast Which stands like a pledge of the British boast That, despite the assault of every foe, They’d still be free—or the world should know.
If you choose to roam from this pleasant place, I would say—to the South, then, turn your face; And look for the palm and the mango tree, And an island set in an azure sea.