On Wenlock Edge the woods are showing
Their tender first-growth hint of green.
A gentle south-west zephyr’s blowing
to animate the sylvan scene.
Was this what Roman armies once faced?
Spring is eternal but the trees
Grow, live and die, are quickly replaced.
New eager saplings taste the breeze.
The tree of man moves always forward
But history’s sorrows are no more.
And as the tides move ever shoreward
we stack up happiness in store.
These green leaves promise future pleasure,
The troubles of the past have flown.
Today I treasure health and leisure
More than the Romans would have known.
