The men that live in North England, I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle walls a man may see The mountains far away. The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring, When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me, Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If ever I become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me. ARAB LOVE-SONG [Sidenote: _Francis Thompson_] The hunchèd camels of the night[11] Trouble the bright And silver waters of the moon. The Maiden of the Morn will soon Through Heaven stray and sing, Star gathering. Now while the dark about our loves is strewn, Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come! And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb. Leave thy father, leave thy mother And thy brother; Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart! Am I not thy father and thy brother, And thy mother? And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents Who hast the red pavilion of my heart? OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES [Sidenote: _Wilfrid Maynell_] As high up in a house as a nest In a tree, They have gone for the night to their rest, The Babes three. One will say, when they wake, with arms crossed, "Jesus blest!" One will cry "Mother mine"--and be lost In that breast. "Ta-ra-ra," then the littlest maid saith, Two and gay; And loud laughs with the last of her breath, "Boom-de-ay!" What they say, in their nests, these dear birds, Is all even: For their speech, be whatever their words, Is of Heaven.