The Moor
The world’s gone forward to its latest fair
And dropt an old man done with by the way,
To sit alone among the bats and stare
At miles and miles and miles of moorland bare
Lit only with last shreds of dying day.
Not all the world, not all the world’s gone by:
Old man, you’re like to meet one traveller still,
A journeyman well kenned for courtesy
To all that walk at odds with life and limb;
If this be he now riding up the hill
Maybe he’ll stop and take you up with him . . .
‘But thou art Death?’ ‘Of Heavenly Seraphim
None else to seek thee out and bid thee come.’
‘I only care that thou art come from Him,
Unbody me - I’m tired - and get me home.’
