I never saw that land before，

    And now can never see it again；

    Yet， as if by acquaintance hoar

    Endeared， by gladness and by pain，

    Great was the affection that I bore

    To the valley and the river small，

    The cattle， the grass， the bare ash trees，

    The chickens from the farmsteads， all

    Elm-hidden， and the tributaries

    Descending at equal interval；

    The blackthorns down along the brook

    With wounds yellow as crocuses

    Where yesterday the labourer's hook

    Had sliced them cleanly； and the breeze

    That hinted all and nothing spoke.

    I neither expected anything

    Nor yet remembered： but some goal

    I touched then； and if I could sing

    What would not even whisper my soul

    As I went on my journeying，

    I should use， as the trees and birds did，

    A language not to be betrayed；

    And what was hid should still be hid

    Excepting from those like me made

    Who answer when such whispers bid.