O the high valley, the little low hill,
  And the cornfield over the sea,
The wind that rages and then lies still,
  And the clouds that rest and flee!

O the grey island in the rainbow haze,
  And the long thin spits of land,
The roughening pastures and the stony ways,
  And the golden flash of the sand!

O the red heather on the moss-wrought rock,
  And the fir-tree stiff and straight,
The shaggy old sheep-dog barking at the flock,
  And the rotten old five-barred gate!

O the brown bracken, the black-berry bough,
  The scent of the gorse in the air!
I shall love them ever as I love them now,
  I shall weary in Heaven to be there!