I'll make love to you
In all good places
Under black mountains
In open spaces
By deep brown rivers
That slither darkly
Through far marches
Where the blue hare races

Come with me to the Wingled Isle
Northern father's western child
Where the dance of ages is playing still
Through the marches of acres wild

I'll make love to you
In the narrow side streets
With shuttered windows,
Crumblling chimneys
By red bricks pointed
With cement fingers
Flaking damply from sagging shoulders



Come with me to the weary town
Discos silent under tiles
That slide from roof-tops, scatter softly
On concrete marches of acres wild.