Classic Poem

It is hard to guess tales from the sight of a thing
Brought up suddenly to the light, though one may have blood
Of Rome, and as I, all instinct, quick to one's high mood.
So Constantine's coin suddenly upward turned here, ploughed,
Still left me dumb of word as to what the loser seemed —
(Only in music my spirit rightly mused or dreamed.)
And the Roman that lost this small penny-thing was most
A wonder to me, though Plutarch I had read, Virgil, and others
(English). I could not get to comradeship of him, nor make ring
The coin on stone as once he might have — but stared and stood
Far-off watching the valley, the Welsh hills, with a sting
Of regret (that I, war poet, had lost this high good
Of knowing one of my infinite dead generations of brothers).
My arms might have lain friendly on his walking shoulders;
His spirit spoken to spirit of my deepest pondering . . .
So following the plough under the lovely and ancient wood
A coin was ploughed up, heating thought till it sudden grew ruddy and glowed.