The Moors.
I have no wish to live on the wild Moors,
Far from the dwelling of my fellow-men,
With none whom I could ever aid, for then
I should not be a hand to lend those powers
The poorest all possess to bless mankind. 5
Yet dearly do I love with some choice friend
Among the Moors for miles our way to wend,—
One who to Nature’s beauty is not blind.
But when the purple heather is in bloom,
And the bees murmur music all around— 10
And far and wide if heard no other sound
Save the sweet songs of birds—when whin and broom
Glow with their fires of gold both far and near—
A day on the wide Moors is joy for many a year.
George Markham Tweddell
[Sonnets on Trees and Flowers, p. 45]
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