Speak to me of Eng­land

This England - - News - Mar­garet Dixon

Nar­row lanes, with leafy trees, A gen­tly laugh­ing English breeze, Crested waves on sum­mer seas — This is the land of Eng­land.

The scent of roses in full bloom, A lazy af­ter­noon in June — Th­ese come to set my heart in tune, Th­ese speak to me of Eng­land.

Frosts in late au­tumn — sparkling white, Novem­ber mists — the sheer de­light Of fire­works ev­ery Bon­fire Night — On some green lawn of Eng­land.

A very English cup of tea, A lit­tle English com­pany, A smile from some­one dear to me — Bred and born in old Eng­land.

Re­turn­ing to Eng­land on a plane — Land­ing in cold and pour­ing rain, Yet this is home — I’m back again, My heart is here — in Eng­land.

My heart is in the par­adise, Which here sur­rounds me — spires that rise, Within the city — love ne’er dies, For cot­tage — town — this Eng­land.


Win­ter sun­shine along the Cotswold Way, near Winch­combe in Glouces­ter­shire.

A soli­tary fish­er­man amid the sea­sonal mist on the tran­quil Esth­waite Wa­ter, Lan­cashire.



Look­ing to­wards the mag­nif­i­cent York Min­ster across the snow-capped rooftops of the city.

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