She Wishes for the Cliffs of Devon

Had I south Devon’s embattled cliffs,

Ablaze with gorse-bloom and salted light,

The sand and the schist and the chalk cliffs

Of rust and slate and softest white,

I would spread the cliffs under your feet:

But I, being here, have only ploughed fields;

I have spread ploughed fields under your feet;

Head south, love; beware the tug of ploughed fields.