These are the gardens of the Desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of England has no name- The Prairies.

Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

[Descriptio Britanniae] Campis late pansis collibusque amoeno situ locatis, praepollenti culturae aptis, montibus alternandis animalium pastibus maxime covenie…

Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd; All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word.

Knowst thou the land where the lemon trees bloom, Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom, Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows, A…