Poetry Archives

I rose up with the sun
And climbed the hill.
I saw the white mists run
And shadows run
Down into hollow woods.

I went with the white clouds
That swept the hill.
A wind struck the low hedge trees
And clustering trees,
And rocked in each tall elm.

The long afternoon was calm
When down the hill
I came, and felt the air cool,
The shadows cool;
And I walked on footsore,

Saying, “But two hours more,
Then, the last hill….
Surely this road I know,
These hills I know,
All the unknown is known,

“And that barn, black and lone,
High on the hill—
There the long road ends,
The long day ends,
And travelling is over.” …

Nor thought nor travelling’s over.
Here on the hill
The black barn is a shivering ruin,
A windy cold ruin.
I must go on and on,

Where often my thought has gone,
Up hill, down hill,
Beyond this ruin of Time;
Forgetting Time
I must follow my thought still.