How tiny England is this map will show,
And how she is the butt of many seas
That shaped her landscape to its subtleties,
How few her rivers are, her hills how low.
This map will tell you, faintly, of her towns
Pin-point for London, Thames a thread of hair
But will not tell of dewponds on the Downs,
Or how the leaves of Warwick green the air.
This map will tell you nothing of the way
The coltish April skips across her skies.
Nor how, in autumn nights, the curlew cries,
Or thrush or blackbird harmonize in May ...
For these such things consult that wiser chart
Engraved upon the exiled English heart.