On Hunshelf Bank I take my stand
One April morning. See, the land
Falls from my feet to rise again
To Greno’s wooded ridge. The men
Who won the pasture from the wild
Penned it and pieced it, but their piled
Stone barriers do not break the sweep
Of quiet landscape. In fun
He waves his wand: the sober green
Vanishes. Sweet and bright and clean
The valley smiles, smiles, until
Its joyous mirth now seems to fill
The happy stretch from stream to hill.
So when I knew you as a boy,
I often shared your sun-like joy,
And watched a gentle jest invade
Your artless features, well repaid
For any wit to see your face
Smile slowly with unequalled grace.
I see you still - in the marquee
Banishing dullness with your glee;
At football, bending down to pick
The ball up that had done the trick -
Still smiling. Wonder not that I maintain
That smiling you left England in your plane.
