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