The Rothers
As far as you can see, the moor
Spreads on and on for many a mile,
And hill and dale are covered o'er
With many a fragrant splash and isle
Of vivid heather, purple still,
Though bracken is yellow on dingle and hill.
The heather bells are stiff and dry.
Yet honey is sweet in the inmost cell;
The bracken's withered that stands so high.
But sleeping cattle love it well.
Thorny fern and honeyless heather,
A friend who chills with the blighting weather.
A mile towards the western sun
The Rothers have their wooded park;
Never another so fair an one
Sees from his poise the singing lark.
When Rother of Rother first began
Recks not the memory of man.
It stands there still, a red old house,
Rother, set round with branchy pines;
The heather is red beneath the boughs.
And red are the trunks where the slant sun shines,
And the earth is ruddy on hollow and height:
But the blood of a Rother's heart is white.
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