OUR BODIES ARE MADE OF ALL THE DUST
THAT IS SCATTERED ABOUT THE WORLD,
THAT WE MIGHT WANDER IN SEARCH OF HOME
WHEREVER THE SEAS ARE HURLED:
BUT OUR HEARTS ARE MADE OF ENGLISH DUST,
AND MIXED WITH NONE BESIDE,
THAT WE MIGHT LOVE WITH AN ENDLESS LOVE
THE LAND WHERE OUR KINGS ABIDE.

AND THO' WE WEAVE ON A HUNDRED SHORES,
AND SPIN ON A THOUSAND QUAYS,
AND THO' WE ARE TRUANT WITH ALL THE WINDS,
AND GYPSY WITH ALL THE SEAS,
WE ARE TOUCHED TO TEARS AS THE HEART IS TOUCHED
BY THE SOUND OF AN ANCIENT TUNE
AT THE NAME OF THE ISLE IN THE WESTERN SEAS
WITH THE ROSE ON HER BREAST OF JUNE.

AND IT'S O FOR A GLIMPSE OF ENGLAND
AND THE BUDS THAT HER GARDEN YIELDS
THE DELICATE SCENT WHICH HER HEDGES WIND,
AND THE SHIMMERING GREEN OF HER FIELDS,
THE ROLL OF HER DOWNS AND THE LULL OF HER STREAMS,
AND THE GRACE OF HER SHORES WHERE THE WATERS WASH
ROSE-TINGED WITH HER THOUSAND DAWNS.