I never saw that land before，

    And now can never see it again；

    Yet， as if by acquaintance hoar

    Endeared， by gladness and by pain，

    Great was the affection that I bore

    To the valley and the river small，

    The cattle， the grass， the bare ash trees，

    The chickens from the farmsteads， all

    Elm-hidden， and the tributaries¹

    Descending² at equal interval³；

    The blackthorns down along the brook⁴

    With wounds yellow as crocuses

    Where yesterday the labourer's hook

    Had sliced them cleanly； and the breeze

    That hinted all and nothing spoke⁵.

    I neither expected anything

    Nor yet remembered： but some goal

    I touched then； and if I could sing

    What would not even whisper my soul

    As I went on my journeying，

    I should use， as the trees and birds did，

    A language not to be betrayed；

    And what was hid should still be hid

    Excepting from those like me made

    Who answer when such whispers bid.