Balcombe Forest
O strange sequestered sunny silent land
Where fairies exiled from man's haunts, might dwell!
Land of the great fern and the heather-bell
And larch and pine and beech-bole gnarled and grand
And trout-streams brown and lanes of rufous sand
And many a deep-green shrouded mystic dell
And silver-gleaming lake and mossy fell, —
Shall I again within thy borders stand? —
Thou hast an inland splendour all thine own.
And yet thy tenderest delight to me
Was, — not thy soft and deep streams' silver tone,
Nor yet the glory of heather-purpled lea, —
But that one summit whence far hills were shown,
Behind whose green walls lay the grey wild sea.
Where fairies exiled from man's haunts, might dwell!
Land of the great fern and the heather-bell
And larch and pine and beech-bole gnarled and grand
And trout-streams brown and lanes of rufous sand
And many a deep-green shrouded mystic dell
And silver-gleaming lake and mossy fell, —
Shall I again within thy borders stand? —
Thou hast an inland splendour all thine own.
And yet thy tenderest delight to me
Was, — not thy soft and deep streams' silver tone,
Nor yet the glory of heather-purpled lea, —
But that one summit whence far hills were shown,
Behind whose green walls lay the grey wild sea.
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