When I Read Names of England

WHEN I read names of England
Old as the Druid stones,
I fall into a dream of men
Now but a dust of bones.
Around Tintagel hangs the shroud
Of fame of crumbled kings;
Though Quarley Down is pasture now,
Anciently it sings.
Ambleside and Bow Fell,
St Anne’s-on-the-Sea:
The quaintness of an elder day
Imparts their wizardry.
Do they speak out to Englishmen
With strange and haunting notes?
Does long-familiar music still
Tighten the English throats?
If I were a British yeoman
Caught by the spell of a name,
I wonder if Vermont would burn
With Cornwall’s primrose flame?
Would there be mystery in these —
Tombstone and Buffalo?
And in Chicago, scarred with wounds
London does not know?
Quarley Down was young once,
Clovelly not at all;
Two thousand years, and Michigan
Will bear the eyes of Saul;
Two thousand years, and one will sigh,
Dreaming over the word,
Michigan! Michigan!
And I shall have heard.