When daffodils danced in Chuck Hatch, and white
Drew their own shadowy purple across the hills,
Darkening the valley where the small flint
The Saxon built stood roofless to the sun,
Believe me,
Memory, it was not a shadow!
No shadow of a cloud you saw that
Flowing across the smooth deep-breasted downs,
But something darker, sweeter,—the wild
Of Sussex, flowing like a river of
That tossed a hundred skylarks up. No shadow,
Believe me,
Memory, but the purple
Flowing by windmill and by wattled
On to the white chalk coast and sparkling sea.
