Classic Poem

The riches of the world have been
Magnificently told;
The caravans of Sheba's queen,
The chests of Tyrian gold,
And Alexander's dusky spears,
And Solomon his mines,
Jerusalems of laurelled seers,—
And gospels of divines.

But these are ghosts and foreign things
When meadow grass is mown
On Cotswold, where my summer sings
Her cottage of grey stone,
And no theologies have made
So quick a Paradise
As this my Cotswold corner laid
Under the Cotswold skies.