FROM stuffy, dark houses
Out over the wold
Where the ploughed furrow drowses
In a haze of gold

See the man in the meadow,
Healthy and lithe,
As under the shadow
He sharpens his glittering scythe.

Look there where the flowers
Have woven a band
Round grey Gothic towers
Where white crosses stand,

And the spire's brown column
Looms grave and aloof
See the stork that with solemn
Demeanour struts over the roof.

The ravine sloping steeply
To meet the blue seas
Is forested deeply
With green-shadowed trees.

And little brooks flashing
Across the green ground,
Bravely go dashing
Away toward the sky-coloured Sound.

Our cart slowly forces
Through sand, and we ride
So near that the horses
Are splashed by the tide.

A gull circles over
The waves with a scream,
Far out we discover
Hven Island in mist like a dream.

Once more the tall beeches,
The tangled ravine,
The long forest reaches,
The song in the green.

And now in the clearing
A flashing array
Of tents we are nearing
The place of our laughter and play.