Where swallows and wheatfields are, O hamlet brown and still, O river that shineth far, By meadow, pier, and mill: O endless sunsteeped plain, With forests in dim blue shrouds, And little wisps of rain, Falling from far-off clouds: I come from the choking air Of pa**ion, doubt, and strife, With a spirit and mind laid bare To your healing breadth of life: O fruitful and sacred ground, O sunlight and summer sky, Absorb me and fold me round, For broken and tired am I.