Ah me, how pleasant to go down
From the forlorn and faded town
To Kentish wood and fold and lane,
And breathe God's blessed air again;
Where glorious yellow corn-fields blaze
And nuts hang over woodland ways.
To pick the sweet keen-scented hops,
( See from each pole a dream-wreath drops )
To toil all day in pure clear air,
Laughter and sunshine everywhere —
With reddening woods and sweet wet soil
And well-earned rest and honest toil.