As I sit atop this lofty tor,
Looking out upon snow-ribboned moor,
I thank the Lord he made me poor
In riches yes but beauties no.
The depths of love I have for home,
So deep that only God could know,
For this here Heaven: hewn out of brome
And granite knoles that knick the fields.
This winter wind fresh spirit yields:
Within the crags and combs it bields;
Wisps up the wed the silk saxe sky
Which when waxes red sets shepherds smiling,
For come the sprites that spell the dry,
And whispers that calm the ponies whiling,
And help flit and flutter the fieldfare's wing.
O cometh those aubades that tideth the spring:
When winchats and ouzels set forth to sing
Awake the bluebells, or heather flowers
Which peep like ladies out of lakes of pink;
Lakes watered well with sweet Summer's showers.
O how shall I describe this in ink?
To say how I feel when I hear the birds?
For the strings of hearts are stronger than words,
And mine strings this snowy moorland spurs.
I wrote this poem a few years ago. I remember the day quite clearly. A crisp January morning atop the snow-speckled peak of Bowerman's Nose on Dartmoor. Earth's firmament was a pure blue, and the sun was shining. I'd taken my new notebook with me (a fit-in-your pocket Christmas present), having resolved that year to write more, or at least try. That I'd recently accquired a volume of Tennyson from an antique booksellers in Seaton is reflected in its more romantic features. It hopes to capture the love I felt - and still do feel - for my childhood home. Later on, I submitted the poem to The Mays, an art magazine featuring the work of Oxford and Cambridge students. In the end, my poem wasn't selected (although a painting of mine did feature). Perhaps its sentimentality proved too sickly sweet for many. In any event, I thought I'd include it here as a glimpse of the beauties of Dartmoor and the land where I grew up.
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