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Wilfrid Scawen Blunt - Chanclebury Ring
Work rating: Low

Say what you will, there is not in the world
 A nobler sight than from this upper Down.
 No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled
 From its Creator`s hand as with a frown;
 But a green plain on which green hills look down
 Trim as a garden plot. No other hue
 Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown
 Of a square fallow, and the horizon`s blue.
 Dear checker--work of woods, the Sussex Weald!
 If a name thrills me yet of things of earth,
 That name is thine. How often I have fled
 To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field,
 Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth
 And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead.
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