Classic Poem

This was a fair land
For the young soul to find,
Whose orchards are renewed
And blossom in the mind.
Far wave, far heaven, far hill,
I dream of England still.

And now this year's primrose
Shines under last year's leaves.
The swallow searches out
Accustomed eaves;
Far wave, far heaven, far hill,
I dream of England still.

Though fresh devices come,
Yet is my custom true;
There my vocation is,
That was my cradle too.
Far wave, far heaven, far hill,
I dream of England still.