I'm sure the works of FW Harvey - the Gloucestershire Lad -would provide a passage or two for you to consider. Your posts have suggested a certain "homesick" feeling so perhaps the following might be appropriate.

In Flanders
by F. W. Harvey

I'm homesick for my hills again -
My hills again!
To see above the Severn plain,
Unscabbarded against the sky,
The blue high blade of Cotswold lie;
The giant clouds go royally
By jagged Malvern with a train
Of shadows. Where the land is low
Like a huge imprisoning O
I hear a heart that's sound and high,
I hear the heart within me cry:
"I'm homesick for my hills again -
My hills again!
Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain!
My hills again!"

or from "My Village"

"...I love the tangled orchards blowing so bright
with clouds of apple blossom and the red
ripe fruit that hangs a shining in the blue air
like rubies hanging in the orchard's hair"

Catherine Drew lived 1784 -> 1867 when, at the age of 82 years
she was laid to rest in the churchyard of St. John's at Cinderford.

Verses taken from "The Days of My Childhood" by CATHERINE DREW

"In a little thatched cottage, as free as a King,
Near a green shady grove, where the birds used to sing.
I was born, and was bred in the Forest of Dean,
I knew nothing of town, or what it did mean."

"Here the ancient oak tree stands,
Which for ages has stood,
And the deer roves in freedom, in this Royal Wood,
Here is all that I wish, and wish for no more.
Content is my portion, though little is my store."

"Then, though I'm grown old, in an evening serene,
But thanks be to God, she can't quite cast me down;
For I trust in the Lord, since his mercies are sure,
And am content in my station, although I am poor. "

THANK YOU
to the person that emailed me this..

we are going to miss the last verse, mainly because he isn't going to be returned to the Forest for burial, he wanted to stay with his wife.

but the rest of it is perfect !!!

My Forest of Dean

Pine standing in rows, like warriors' lances
Cathedrals of beech trees, arching their branches
A carpet of grass, so lush and so green
I'm sorry I left you, my Forest of Dean

The bleating of sheep, the tumbling of streams
Are sounds that haunt, the deepest of dreams
I drank it all in, with senses so keen
When I was young, in my Forest of Dean

The song of achaffinch, the smell of wood smoke
The bluebells that spread, between towers of old oaks
Of all the places, that I've ever been
Nothing compares, with my Forest of Dean

The hills and the valleys, of my native land
All bears the scars of my forefather's hand
And the older I get, the farther I lean
Back to the past, in my Forest of Dean

Silent scowl holes, those Iron Age caves
Wind-tossed fern banks, rolling like waves
These sceret places, that rarely are seen
Await me unchanged in my Forest of Dean

I picture the ponds, where the heron still wades
The splendour of autumn, its hues and its shades
If I could return, how much it would mean
Just to see you again, my Forest of Dean

But maybe I'll die, before another day dawns
And never again, see the deer with their fawns
If so, take me back, where the air is still clean
And lay me to rest, in my Forest of Dean

R Miles