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And this I think was in praise of Yorkshire equally [just love the   aptness 
and absolute concise precision of the 'immoderate soils'  image]:-
 
 
In Praise Of Limestone 

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant  ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is  chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded  slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and,  beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the  springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each  filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own  little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine  this region
Of short distances and definite  places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter  background
For her son, the flirtatious male who  lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his  power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple,  from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal  vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child's  wish
To receive more attention than his brothers,  whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.
Watch,  then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their  steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank  God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at  midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to  think
There are any important secrets, unable
To  conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to  be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that  responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in  awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or  reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into  infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad's comb; born  lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And  insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With  which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes  to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains  incomprehensible: to become a pimp
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine  tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could  happen to all
But the best and the worst of  us...
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed  here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so  external,
The light less public and the meaning of  life
Something more than a mad camp. `Come!' cried the granite  wastes,
`How evasive is your humour, how  accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death.'  (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) `Come!' purred the  clays and gravels,
`On our plains there is room for armies to drill;  rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a  tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and  both
Need to be altered.' (Intendant Caesars rose  and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were  fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic  whisper:
`I am the solitude that asks and promises  nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no  love;
There are only the various envies, all of them  sad.'

They were right, my dear, all those voices were  right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it  looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a  site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back  ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big  busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is  that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of  itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All  the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is  made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously  doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers,  rebuke his concern for Nature's
Remotest aspects: I, too,  am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get  caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to  resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like  water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted,  these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is  music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And  does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To  death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if  bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter  into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care  what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide.  Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless  love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of  underground streams, what I see is a limestone  landscape.