Gaulzery Moor

Moor of my name, where the road leads high,
Thro' heather and bracken, gorse and grass,
Up to the crown of the western sky,
A questing traveller, slow, I pass.
Silent and lonely the darkening moor,
The beasts are bedded, the birds are gone,
Never a farm, nor a cottage door,
And I on the road alone — alone;
And the south-west wind is beginning to croon
And a listening lonely pine-tree sways;
And behind it is hanging a golden moon
For a resting sign at the cornerways.
A thousand years since the stranger came,
And homed him here, and gave me name.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.