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O, once, by Cuckmere Haven, I heard a sailor sing Of shores beyond the sunset, And lands of lasting spring, Of blue lagoons and palm trees And isles where all was young; But this was ever the burden Of every note he sung:— O, have you seen my true love A-walking in that land? Or have you seen her footprints Upon that shining sand? Beneath the happy palm trees, By Eden whispers fanned . . . O, have you seen my true love A-walking in that land? And, once in San Diego, I heard him sing again, Of Amberley, Rye, and Bramber, And Brede and Fairlight Glen: The nestling hills of Sussex, The russet-roofed elfin towns, And the skylark up in a high wind Carolling over the downs. From Warbleton to Wild Brook When May is white as foam, O, have you seen my dearling On any hills of home? Or have you seen her shining, Or only touched her hand, O, have you seen my true love A-walking in that land? And, once again, by Cowfold, I heard him singing low, 'Tis not the leagues of ocean That hide the hills I know. The May that shines before me Has made a ghost of May. The valleys that I would walk in Are twenty years away. Ah, have you seen my true love A-walking in that land . . . On hills that I remember, In valleys I understand, So far beyond the sunset, So very close at hand,— O have you seen my true love In that immortal land? |