At an Earthworks
Ringed high with turf the arena lies,
The neighbouring world unseen, unheard,
Here are but unhorizoned skies,
And on the skies a passing bird,
The conies and a wandering sheep,
The castings of the chambered mole, —
These, and the haunted years that keep
Lost agonies of blood and soul.
They say that in the midnight moon
The ghostly legions gather yet,
And hear a ghostly timbrel-tune,
And see a ghostly combat met.
These are but yeoman’s tales. And here
No marvel on the midnight falls,
But starlight marvellously clear,
Being girdled in these shadowy walls.
Yet now strange glooms of ancestry
Creep on me through this morning light,
Some spectral self is seeking me . . .
I will not parley with the night.
