When daffodils danced in Chuck Hatch, and white clouds br Drew their own shadowy purple across the hills, br Darkening the valley where the small flint church br The Saxon built stood roofless to the sun, br Believe me, Memory, it was not a shadow! br No shadow of a cloud you saw that day br Flowing across the smooth deep-breasted downs, br But something darker, sweeter,-the wild thyme br Of Sussex, flowing like a river of joy br That tossed a hundred skylarks up. br No shadow, br Believe me, Memory, but the purple thyme br Flowing by windmill and by wattled fold br On to the white chalk coast and sparkling sea.