Three Hills Everard Owen
From Mr. Owen’s book, “Three Hills and Other Poems.” Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., Publishers, London, England. Special permission to insert in this book.
THERE is a hill in England,
Green fields and a school I know,
Where the balls fly fast in summer,
And the whispering elm-trees grow,
A little hill, a dear hill,
And the playing fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders,
Heaped with a thousand slain,
Where the shells fly night and noontide
And the ghosts that died in vain—
A little hill, a hard hill,
To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry,
Three crosses pierce the sky,
On the midmost He is dying
To save all those who die—
A little hill, a kind hill
To souls in jeopardy.