On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble
by
A.E. Housman
|
| On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; |
| His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; |
| The gale, it plies the saplings double, |
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
|
| 'Twould blow like this through holt and
hanger |
| When Uricon the city stood: |
| 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, |
But then it threshed another wood.
|
| Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman |
| At yonder heaving hill would stare: |
| The blood that warms an English yeoman, |
The thoughts that hurt him, they were
there.
|
| There, like the wind through woods in riot, |
| Through him the gale of life blew high; |
| The tree of man was never quiet: |
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
|
| The gale, it plies the saplings double, |
| It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: |
| To-day the Roman and his trouble |
Are ashes under Uricon.
|
