Classic Poem

Is it the moorland blood
That fills me with disdain
For the cities where I was bred
And the cultivated plain,
And makes me long for rock
And a bare horizon again?

Is it the moorland blood
That never bows to a tree,
That looks beyond garden flowers,
And is stranger to the sea?
Loves these things, but not to the bone,
Not enduringly?

Always beyond, beyond
I see the floods of light
On a barren land where the fox
Runs, and great birds take flight
And I feel the dampness of mists
And lightning stabs through the night.