• Ribblesdale

  • Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavès throng
  • And louchèd low grass, heaven that dost appeal
  • To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel;
  • That canst but only be, but dost that long—
  • Thou canst but be, but that thou well dost; strong
  • Thy plea with him who dealt, nay does now deal,
  • Thy lovely dale down thus and thus bids reel
  • Thy river, and o’er gives all to rack or wrong.
  • And what is Earth’s eye, tongue, or heart else, where
  • Else, but in dear and dogged man?—Ah, the heir
  • To his own selfbent so bound, so tied to his turn,
  • To thriftless reave both our rich round world bare
  • And none reck of world after, this bids wear
  • Earth brows of such care, care and dear concern.