All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Land of Heart's Desire, Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, time an endless song.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the grey twilight, And hope is less dear than the…

I would mould a world of fire and dew With no one bitter, grave, or over wise, And nothing marred or old to do you wrong.

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadows sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.

And so I penned It down, until at last it came to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.