Oh how my spirit longs to go to the oft remembered hills
to listen to the tinkling brook a dancing down the rills,
where Curlews soar majestically on high,
and soft green folds hold up a golden sky.
There in dusty lanes and scent filled air
the weary spirit flies oblivious to care,
where nature spreads her bounty over all,
and summer rains like blessings gently fall.
Come with me and we will fly
to the land of golden sky
and  tread the lanes to climb the stile
and there know sweet contentment
for awhile.