NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only <br />Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells, <br />But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely, <br />The vast enchantment of her presence dwells. <br />Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather, <br />Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees-- <br />If you and I were only there together, <br />Free from the weight of all your garden's trees! <br /> <br /> <br />The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow, <br />Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best; <br />I love the plover's wail, the cleft hill's shadow, <br />The sun-browned grass that is the skylark's nest. <br />Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader, <br />You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown, <br />And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar, <br />Than greet the moor's wide heaven-on-earth alone.<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moors/
