Beneath the ancient oaks so grand,
Where shadows dance on dappled land,
The whispering woods sing soft and low,
A melody that few may know.

The silent streams that gently weave,
Through meadows green where willows grieve,
Reflect the sky, both blue and wide,
In nature’s arms, we safely hide.

The breeze that sweeps across the moor,
With tales of times that came before,
It carries scents of blooming heather,
A bond that time can never sever.

As twilight falls and stars appear,
The nightingale’s song we hold dear,
In the English countryside so pure,
Nature’s symphony shall endure.