You love the chant of green,
The low-voiced trees, the meadow’s monotone.
O friend of mine, it is for these you pray.
This alien land must call unheard, unseen,
While one beloved note your heart has known,
To hunger for it, half a world away.
Come with me to my height,
And stand at sunset when the winds are still,
Watching the hollow valleys brim with light,
The red and brown and yellow hills—they shout,
And on the shoulders of the marching host
The bayonets are gleaming points of white.
Pressing beyond to deep and gradual blues,
Their lessening voices die in distance pale—
Ineffably dissolved in opal hues;
Against the sky the last sweet echoes fail
While all the West is quivering, fold on fold
To one great voice—one vibrant peal of gold.