Schöne Eck

Dawn in the beech woods, high up on the ridge.

A late fox drifts past, ghostly, mouse in maw.

Cold golden sunlight streams over the edge.

Above misty tree tops a Raven caws.

For an hour, a day, a year or an age.

All is well, in these old sunlit woodlands.

This is the place, my heaven, my souls ease.

Not the high bare hills of my English youth.

Nor the warm distant beaches of childhood.

The wastes of the Atlantic left me cold.

Falkland, South Georgia, high Mount Erebus

The high plains of Canada, parching dry.

Cities of Europe all fail to compare.

With a fresh gust of wind through the tree-tops.

The leaf-fall, the first snow, the spring flowers.

All work their magic to make this place mine.

I named it myself once, out hunting.

When my time comes, happily would I lie.

For an hour, a day, a year or an age.

High up on the ridge, under deep leaf mould.

And the high stars, In Hessen’s Hosbachtal.

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