Classic Poem

O Little Land of lapping seas,
Of vineyards, vales and hills,
Of tender rains and rainbow plains,
Of deserts and of rills;
O little Land of mounting crags,
Of lonely height and deep,
A world away thy children stray
And long and wait and weep.
From Egypt's flesh-pots, Lord of wrath,
With mighty outstretched hand,
Through seas and mountains cleave our path;
Oh Lord, redeem our Land!
I know the golden oranges
Englobed beneath the moon,
The sky that spills 'twixt seas and hills
Its shining draught of noon,
The vines that bind our holy hills
With grapes like jewels set,
The silver green of olive sheen —
Oh, can my soul forget!