Ribblesdale

Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavés throng    

And louchéd low grass, heaven that dost appeal    
To, with no tongue to plead, no heart to feel;    
That canst but only be, but dost that long—    
 
Thou canst but be, but that thou well dost; strong            
Thy plea with him who dealt, nay does now deal,    
Thy lovely dale down thus and thus bids reel    
Thy river, and o’er gives all to rack or wrong.    
 
And what is Earth’s eye, tongue, or heart else, where    
Else, but in dear and dogged man?—Ah, the heir            
To his own selfbent so bound, so tied to his turn,    
To thriftless reave both our rich round world bare    
And none reck of world after, this bids wear    
Earth brows of such care, care and dear concern.