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Sonnet Written at a Distance from Home My own dear country--thy remembrance comes Like softly--flowing music on my heart; With thy green sunny hills, and happy homes, And cots rose--bowered, bosomed in dells apart; The merry pealings of our village bells Gush ever and anon upon mine ear; And is there not a far--off sound that tells Of many--voicèd laughter shrill and clear? Oh! were I now with thee--to sit and play Under the hawthorn on the slope o' th' hill, As I was wont to do; or pluck all day The cowslip and the flaunting daffodil, Till shepherds whistled homeward, and the West Folded the large sun in her crimson breast. Henry Alford's other poems:
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