Earth, sweet Earth, sweet landscape, with leavès throng

And louchèd 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.