‘Chanclebury Ring’ – by Wilfrid Blunt

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.

Chanctonbury Ring

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