Classic Poem

(Sussex Landscape)


Is it your watch-fire, elves, where the down with its darkening shoulder
Lifts on the death of the sun, out of the valley of thyme?
Dropt on the broad chalk path and, cresting the ridge of it, smoulder
Crimson as blood on the white, halting my feet as they climb,

Clusters of clover-bloom, spilled from what negligent arms in the tender
Dusk of the great grey world, last of the tints of the day;
Beautiful, sorrowful, strange last stain of that perishing splendour.
Elves, from what torn white feet trickled that red on the way?

No--from the sun-burnt hands of what lovers that fade in the distance?
Here, was it here that they paused, here that the legend was told?
Even a kiss would be heard in this hush; but, with mocking insistence,
Now thro' the valley resound--only the bells of the fold.

Dropt--from the hands of what beautiful throng? Did they cry "follow
after"?
Dancing into the west, leaving this token for me,
Memory dead on the path, and the sunset to bury their laughter?
Youth--is it youth that has flown? Darkness covers the sea.

Darkness covers the earth; but the path is here! I assay it.
Let the bloom fall like a flake--dropt from the torch of a friend!
Beautiful revellers, happy companions, I see and obey it;
Follow your torch in the night, follow your path to the end.