The Land of the Fell is Again to me Crying

 Here now I stand in my garden in June,
In the time of the iris and the water falling,
Neath vaults of blue, blue skies high strewn
And the fluter of leaves to each other calling.

When the flit of the bird from tree to tree,
Is seen amid cool breezes blowing,
I now can wait in quiet plea,
For some new thought or venture growing.

But that which comes is from old to me,
When I, in distant lands, went journeying
And won friends from long ago across a sea,
And home with treasures came I carrying.

For keen and strong those lands hold forth;
Neath northern climbs and winds a-wuthering.
And the wild fell-lands of the north,
No mill can blacken with furnace smothering.

Odd that my heart should never cease,
To long for the rugged and the wind that is sighing.
For though I be at home’s gardens in peace,
The land of the fell is again to me crying.