Hold hard， these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month，

　　Under the lank¹， fourth folly² on Glamorgan's hill，

　　As the green blooms ride upward， to the drive of time；

　　Time， in a folly's rider， like a county man

　　Over the vault³ of ridings with his hound at heel，

　　Drives forth⁴ my men， my children， from the hanging south.

　　Country， your sport is summer， and December's pools

　　By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees

　　Lie this fifth month unskated， and the birds have flown；

　　Holy hard， my country children in the world if tales，

　　The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks，

　　The first and steepled season， to the summer's game.

　　And now the horns of England， in the sound of shape，

　　Summon your snowy horsemen， and the four-stringed hill，

　　Over the sea-gut loudening， sets a rock alive；

　　Hurdles⁵ and guns and railings， as the boulders⁶ heave，

　　Crack like a spring in vice⁷， bone breaking April，

　　Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.

　　Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet⁸ lands，

　　Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood，

　　Time， in a rider rising， from the harnessed valley；

　　Hold hard， my country darlings， for a hawk⁹ descends¹⁰，

　　Golden Glamorgan straightens， to the falling birds.

　　Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.