THREE
HILLS There
is a hill in England, Green fields and a school I know, Where the balls
fly fast in summer, And the whispering elm-trees grow, A little hill, a
dear hill, And the playing fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells
fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain, -- A little hill,
a hard hill To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost
He is dying To save all those who die, -- A little hill, a kind hill To
souls in jeopardy. Everard
Owen Harrow,
December, 1915 |