BEWCASTLE

Deep in the West, and shining yet from Caesar,

A few grey houses round a broken cross

Stand friend-like in the ringing hills; these are

Fire-side and altar, set in fosse and valium,

The unsworded salvage of the Roman loss.

The wars are all gone over and their trouble.

A bell that ringing always rings unheard,

Peace, for their sins gives weary nations double.

These are the unfought hills. Their loving kindness

Lights on the spirit like a singing bird.

On Gillalees the beacons go unlighted,

Save of the gorse more brilliant after rain.

On Battle Rigg there are no pennons sighted,

And only lambs cry down the road of the legions

From Fawcettlees as far as Triermain.

 On Yellow Fawns the high hill mornings waken.

On Kinkry Cairn the heather evenings dream.

On Rinnion Hills the scented dews are shaken,

Till noon comes down in might from Amboglanna

To make them dark in his imperial gleam.

So weary I am of the war this world inherits

For things that wither and words that wither, the praise

Of those would have me be as they, withering spirits,

Sun—slaughtered of success—the Roman battle

And the same barren end of Roman days.

Give me the Waste in worship; give me the manna

Of minds wayfaring, poor enough to pray,

Where the windy moon silvers forgotten Banna,

And curlews cry in the twilight over the Border

Voices, yearning voices, a world away.