Classic Poem

It lies amid enfolding hills that keep
The old years in, far from the rumbling world.

At sunset when I walk the lane that leads
Down to that haunted hamlet, on the way
I hear the tread of long dead villagers,
The seed-time sowers of forgotten years,
And reapers reaping when a Tudor reigned;
The nameless labourers whom no stone recalls,
Of whom no tale is told; yet still their toil
Lives in the bosom of the brooding fields.

Around an open green and under limes
That sweep the thatch, are red-walled cottages,
With gables raised on beams irregular;
Here are their homes, they builded these red walls;
And now the windows are as eyes that gaze
Across the green to where the steeple shows
Over the elms that shade the village graves.

At twilight, wandering by, through leaded panes
I see the rosy housewives round their hearths,
And maidens spreading tables; yet I see
Other inhabitants in those old homes,
And gatherings from far years in the dim rooms:
The glees and woes of generations gone
Time out of mind from their familiar homes.

At evening, from a trimly furrowed field
Brown with the new-turned earth, I see strong men
Lead their large horses home; but after them
Come others, phantom plowmen, grey and worn,
Laden with years of labour: a mist falls,
The moon goes dim; yet I can see them there,
Laborious in the moonlight all night long.