John Drinkwater

The Defenders

His wage of rest at nightfall still
   He takes, who sixty years has known
Of ploughing over Cotsall hill
   And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.
 
He meditates the dusk, and sees
   Folds of his wonted shepherdings
And lands of stubble and tall trees
   Becoming insubstantial things.
 
And does he see on Cotsall hill —
   Thrown even to the central shire —
The funnelled shapes forbidding still
   The stranger from his cottage fire?
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