Classic Poem

When twice a hundred years have gone
Across my Cotswold eaves,
And still the woods of Sapperton
Make summer of green leaves,
Come then and sing what song you will,
You lovers of new time,
But sometimes on my Cotswold hill
Renew my Cotswold rhyme.

Make me a temple on this ground
Not built of mortal stone,
But sprung from unforgotten sound
Of song my blood has known,
So shall my tale not be of dust
Chilled in a common urn,
While proudly through your younger lust
My testament shall burn.