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 tributaries1
Descending2 at equal interval3；
The blackthorns down along the brook4
With wounds yellow as crocuses
Where yesterday the labourer's hook
Had sliced them cleanly； and the breeze
That hinted all and nothing spoke5.
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.
