| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1165. Breath of Hampstead Heath |
| | | By Edith Matilda Thomas |
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| THE WIND of Hampstead Heath still burns my cheek | |
| As, home returned, I muse, and see arise | |
| Those rounded hills beneath the low, gray skies, | |
| With gleams of haze-lapped cities far to seek. | |
| These can I picture, but how fitly speak | 5 |
| Of what might not be seen with searching eyes, | |
| And all beyond the listening ear that lies, | |
| Best known to bards and seers in times antique? | |
| The winds that of the spirit rise and blow | |
| Kindle my thought, and shall for many a day, | 10 |
| Recalling what blithe presence filled the place | |
| Of one who oftentimes passed up that way, | |
| By garden close and lane where boughs bend low, | |
| Until the breath of Hampstead touched his face. | |
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