Classic Poem

O exquisite
And talking water, are you not more glad
To be sole daughter and one comfort bright
Of this small hill lone-guarding its delight,
Than unconsidered to be
Some waif of Cotswold or the Malvern height?
Your name a speck of glory in so many.
You are the silver of a dreaming mound
That likes the quiet way of thought and sound,
Moists tussocks with a sunken influence,
Collects and runs one way down to farm yard
Sheds, house, standing up there by soft sward,
Green of thorn, green of sorrel and age-old heath
Of South-West's lovely breath.