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 Winged Isle,
Northern father's western child
Where the dance of ages is playing still
Through far marches of acres wild.

I'll make love to you in narrow side streets
With shuttered windows and crumbling chimneys.

Come with me to the weary town;
Discuss silent under tiles
That slides from roof-tops scattered softly
On concrete marches of acres wild.



By red bricks pointed with cement fingers,
Flaking damply with sagging shoulders.

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