I know a hidden field of ridge and furrow,
            Far from track or human tread,
Where grasses sigh and coneys burrow,
     Where the cowslips dot the midden,
     Where a skylark hovers, hidden,
                   Very high above your head.

I know an ancient road men call The Drover,
            Free of fences, gate or wire;
A chalky way of turf and clover,
      There the hedge is white at May time,
      There a barn owl roosts in daytime
            Snug within a ruined byre.

I know a Druid yew, a silent mourner,
            Mourning what, I do not know.
It stands within a pasture corner,
      Grim with age, grown gaunt and hollow,
      Guarding still some secret sorrow;
            Rot within and grief below.

I know a grassy mound, an orchard parcel
            Tucked beside a hazel wood,
There the lambs play king o’ the castle,
      There I’ve sat amid the cherries,
      Swearing I’d be back for berries —
            Knowing that I never should.