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Poem by Katharine Tynan
To men now of her blood and race England's a little garden place, Dear as a woman is, and she The Queen of every loyalty. To dwellers 'mid the ice and snows, She is their secret garden rose From which that bee, their heart, sucks off For the cold Winter honey enough. To toilers 'mid the sultry plains, Sick for her tempered suns and rains, She is the thought that wets their eyes And hearts with dew of Paradise. Most loved of those who never knew Her green o' the silk and her soft blue, Her mild inviolate fields that be Hedged with the sweet-briar of the sea. Sweet in their dreams her Summers are, Her tranquil nights of moon and star, The love-songs of her nightingales; A water-spring that never fails. Amid their unending distances Her little crowded sweetness is A dream of rest, a dream of prayer, With homes and children everywhere. Touch her -- and they are all on fire, This little land of their desire Seen in a mirage far away With light upon her night and day.
Katharine Tynan's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org