Hold hard， these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month，
Under the lank1， fourth folly2 on Glamorgan's hill，
As the green blooms ride upward， to the drive of time；
Time， in a folly's rider， like a county man
Over the vault3 of ridings with his hound at heel，
Drives forth4 my men， my children， from the hanging south.
Country， your sport is summer， and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated， and the birds have flown；
Holy hard， my country children in the world if tales，
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks，
The first and steepled season， to the summer's game.
And now the horns of England， in the sound of shape，
Summon your snowy hor百度竞价推广en， and the four-stringed hill，
Over the sea-gut loudening， sets a rock alive；
Hurdles5 and guns and railings， as the boulders6 heave，
Crack like a spring in vice7， bone breaking April，
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet8 lands，
Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood，
Time， in a rider rising， from the harnessed valley；
Hold hard， my country darlings， for a hawk9 descends10，
Golden Glamorgan straightens， to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.