Explore "Out of the Fulness of the Heart the Mouth Speaketh." by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
In answer to those who have said that English Poets / give no personal love to their country.
ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations, / Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong, / Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations? / Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song? / O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden, / Green in the patience of winter, gold in the pageant of spring, / Oaks and young larches awaking, wind-flowers and violets blowing, / What, if God sets us to singing, what save you shall we sing? / Who but our England is fair through the veil of her poets' praises, / What but the pastoral face, the fruitful, beautiful breast? / Are not your poets' meadows starred with the English daisies? / Were not the wings of their song-birds fledged in an English nest? / Songs of the leaves in the sunlight, songs of the fern-brake in shadow, / Songs of the world of the woods and songs of the marsh and the mere, / Are they not English woods, dear English marshland and meadow? / Have not your poets loved you? England, are you not dear?