Say what you will, there is not in the world br A nobler sight than from this upper Down. br No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled br From its Creator's hand as with a frown; br But a green plain on which green hills look down br Trim as a garden plot. No other hue br Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown br Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue. br Dear checker--work of woods, the Sussex Weald! br If a name thrills me yet of things of earth, br That name is thine. How often I have fled br To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field, br Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth br And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead.