(Locheven)
There is a spot in the woods
That is “forever England” to me.
A clump of beech trees
Steeped in silence,
Whose shade and solitude
Shuts me in with my dreams.
The sunshine slants through
Their limpid leaves
And turns them to translucent jade,
Just as it does in an English spring.
Violets are there, and I pluck them,
Remembering the bluebells
In the beech wood
At Sevenoaks.