For more than half a decade, it remained hidden in a well-thumbed copy of English writer Arthur Mee’s book, Norfolk.
And now, for the very time, an extraordinary poem written in homage to Nelson’s county has been shared.
Kathy Blake, of Bircham’s Yard, Reepham, first came across the love letter to Norfolk after helping her father, John Lincoln, sort through his belongings.
Previously unpublished, it is was possibly penned by her mother, Jean Lincoln, who died in 2002.
Ms Blake explained how the discovery came about.
She said: “My father recently, because of ill health, moved in with me.
“We have gradually been going through his stuff and that was how I stumbled across this poem. It was in a copy of Arthur Mee's, Norfolk.
“In the 1940s, Mee wrote a series of books about all of the English counties. It was sometimes referred to as the new Domesday book. I know mum loved her copy and it was very well-thumbed. It would have been a natural home for the poem.”
During the early 1950s, Mrs Lincoln was secretary to the then chief constable of Norfolk. The poem is believed to have originated from that time - although its provenance remains a mystery.
“I have looked online and found nothing, so I imagine it was unpublished. There are no clues from the original copy either.
“Mum may well have written it herself but I cannot categorically state that she did. If she did, she never told any of us about it.
“Ironically, I found it just a few days before this year’s Norfolk Day. If anyone else has any information about it, I would be very interested.”
Ms Blake described it as “a wonderful poem” that brought a lump to her throat when she first read it.
She added: “I've had a print of it made and framed which will be displayed proudly in my home.”
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If anyone has any information regarding the poem then please email reporter donna-louise.bishop@archant.co.uk
Norfolk - a poem
by Unknown
No mountains grand your contours show, no rushing gorge
deep streams,
But quiet brooding marsh and fen, and heathlands heathered
dreams,
No bard extols your lavish past, no poet pens your lines,
But still the Nelson spirit lives, and still your beauty
shines.
Your sleepy broads mean more to me than lakelands wond'rous
charms,
Nor would I change for Snowdon's peak, the smallest of
your farms,
Bedecked with fields of golden corn, and clothed with
gorse and broom;
The pine trees gaunt stand guard upon the heathlands of
my home.
Far out across the sandy dunes where oft the wild geese cry,
A million breasts of white are seen, like snowflakes in
the sky.
While on your borderland there broods the silent sombre
fen;
Sea lashed, it stirs protestingly, then frowns to sleep
again.
Your marshland churches stand to-day proud monuments to God;
Defying time as once they did the haughty Norman's rod.
The fenman to his freedom held when freedom's price was
dear;
The northern oceans mock him yet, but naught can make him
fear.
Cathedral city Norwich stands, your fairest jewel of all;
The shadows of its lofty spire like benedictions fall,
Its sleepy stream meanders by, its drowsy castle sleeps,
And locked within grey city walls, a heart of gold it keeps.
From banks of Ouse to Waveney, from Gorleston sands to Lynn,
Your boundaries are none too large to hold your treasures
In.
What fragrant memories dear to me were born within your breast,
When in those happy days of peace my heart to yours I
pressed.
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