Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky. But here my love would stay. But when the snows at Christmas On Bredon top were strown, My love rose up so early And stole out unbeknown And went to church alone. And still the steeples hum. The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed.
Nothing beside remains.
The lone and level sands stretch far away. Hovering there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious burning blue I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew. The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God. Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge.