Pale leaves waver and whisper low 
  (Silvered leaves of the poplar tree), 
Waters wander and willows blow 
      In Picardie. 

Misty green of the orchard grass, 
  Grass-grown lanes by the sedge-fringed lea, 
Pleasant ways for the feet that pass 
      Through Picardie. 

 ... 

Long lagoons where the lilies lie 
  (Blossoms and buds of ivory). 
Sweet the meadows and fair the sky 
      Of 
In Picardie ! 

Where be the waters to drown regret ? 
  Where be the leaves of Sleep's own tree ? 
Nowhere else in the world -- nor yet 
      In Picardie.