My England

My England

England, oh my English rose

Where morning mist in silence goes,

Where hedgerows line the winding lane,

And church bells chime in soft refrain.

Your skies may grey, your winds may bite,

But still you hold me warm and tight.

With tea and tales, with muddy shoes,

With meadow walks and rainy views.

Your voice is calm, your ways are slow,

With hidden strength not all will know.

In every stone, in every tree,

There’s something old that speaks to me.

So let the world rush on and spin—

My roots, dear rose, are deep within.

And though I roam, my heart still knows:

I’ll always love my English rose.