UNDER the young moon's slender shield <br />With the wind's cool lips on mine, <br />I went home from the Rabitty Field <br />As the clocks were striking nine. <br /> <br />The yews were dark in the level light, <br />The thorn-trees dropped with gold, <br />And a partridge called where the dew was white <br />In the grass on the edge of the fold. <br /> <br />O, had your hand been in my hand <br />As the long chalk-road I trod, <br />The green hills of the lovely land <br />Had seemed the hills of God.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/going-home-28/
