I await the golden days of corn,
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where soft breezes orchestrate
the gliding waves of straining stem
and heavy, bowing ears.
There in my summer gladness,
I will walk the crusty, powdered footpath;
dried by an unforgiving sun.
My heart will beat faster
at the sight of the redness of poppy
and the song of a lark ascending.
Here in my tranquil surroundings,
I will praise my England...
right down to the ground.