Friesland’s stretches

FRIESLAND’S STRETCHES

Oh God, how beautiful Your stretches are;
the birds are sailing over them; the foaming
of the ships I watch through the mirroring,
spacious broads; the bashful windflower
ventures to open in the shelter of spring;
the goldilocks are rankly growing
as well as ruddy sorrel; the yellow, humming
bumble-bees are droning round the shrubs, shady and sheltering.

And here and yonder, on the deep-blue sky,
lean, greyish glory, churches of the times gone by;
above them sparkle golden steeple-cocks.
Oh God, how does Your stiff wind rise here freely;
also the gaiety of a peasant-boy, who’s laughing loudly;
it’s winging through the air like migrant swans.