Thomas Runciman

I.Though here fair blooms the rose and the woodbine waves on high,And oak and elm and bracken frond enrich the rolling lea,And winds as if from Arcady breathe joy as they go by,Yet I yearn and I pine for my North Countrie.I leave the drowsing south and in dreams I northward fly,And walk the stretching moors that fringe the ever-calling sea;And am gladdened as the gales that are so bitter-sweet go... more...