TELL the tune his feet beat On the ground all day -- Black-burnt ground and green grass Seamed with rocks of grey -- "England," "England," "England," That one word they say. Now they tread the beech-mast. Now the ploughland's clay, Now the faery ball-floor of her fields in May. Now her red June sorrel, now her new-turned hay, Now they keep the great road, now by sheep-path stray, Still it's "England," "England," "England" all the way! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 8 by THOMAS CAMPION THE LAST POST by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES TO HIS CONSCIENCE by ROBERT HERRICK ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE: THE POWER OF MUSIC by SAMUEL LISLE GOOD LUCK by JOHANNA AMBROSIUS |