Do not look upon my Holland with a callous eye,
She hides a sacred purity in unseen folds;
Of blue-gold hue is the canvas of her winter sky,
As in beauty’s unassuming gait she strolls
Along the broad and arcane arc of time
Where she has strewn flowers of benign and noble deeds;
Great masters of the brush graced her Renaissance clime –
Today she gallops with the modern world’s swift steeds.
Her fields and acres stretch into infinity,
Meek cows serenely graze upon her tender swards,
Her Western borders touch the salt of silver seas;
Beauty’s pomp and bravado her humble eye discards.
In every season’s dress she flaunts divinity
And in her every child’s sweet heart her soul-light looms;
An inner fulness ever abides in her vicinnity:
On winter’s hard and frozen ground the crocus blooms.
By: Abhinabha