I have known moors and mountains,
And many a wind-swept height,
But the little hills of Charnwood
Are precious in my sight. More blue than dark delphiniums,
Or violets in the lane,
Or the bloom on ripened damsons,
They show before the rain. But in the heat of summer,
And at the close of day,
They dream across the valley
Wrapt in a mist of grey. I go to them in sorrow--
So calm they are, and kind:
The little hills of Charnwood
Bring comfort to my mind. I look on them with worship,
Because, by land and sea,
Brave men have died in thousands
To keep them safe and free.