These are the hills our poet Langland trod,
"Weary forwandered," from the sunrise flush
To amber evening thrilled by merle and thrush,
Long Will, whose sombre soul went pilgrim-shod
Seeking Saint Truth. Men called him churl and clod;
He heard them not, rapt in his dream's deep hush;
Hardly he heard the merry waters gush;
Still wandering with no company but God.
These hills are holy ground because of thee,
O earthborn who wouldst make no peace with earth,
Craving that visionary clime where all
Thy troubled field of folk at last shall be
One brotherhood in labor and in mirth,
And not a blessing undivided fall.