Larches are most fitting small red hills <br />That rise like swollen antheaps likeably <br />And modest before big things like near Malvern <br />Or Cotswold's farther early Italian <br />Blue arrangement; unassuming as the <br />Cowslips, celandines, buglewort and daisies <br />That trinket out the green swerves like a child's game. <br />O never so careless or lavish as here, <br />I thought, 'You beauty! I must rise soon one dawn time <br />And ride to see the first beam strike on you <br />Of gold or ruddy recognisance over <br />Crickley level or Bredon sloping down. <br />I must play tunes like Bums, or sing like David, <br />A saying out of what the hill leaves unexprest <br />The tale or song that lives in it, and is sole, <br />A round red thing, green upright things of flame <br />It is May, and the conceited cuckoo toots and whoos his name.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/larches/
