Had I south Devon’s embattled cliffs,
Ablaze with gorse-bloom and salted light,
The sand and the schist and the chalk cliffs
Of rust and slate and softest white,
I would spread the cliffs under your feet:
But I, being here, have only ploughed fields;
I have spread ploughed fields under your feet;
Head south, love; beware the tug of ploughed fields.
