The Great War

from Poems, an electronic edition

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."