Wessex harvest

NOW the ancient Wessex hills
seize their lost splendour—
once, Stonehenge-building, their princes
proud with their Wicklow gold
strode in the sunshine;
now earth inherits
their dust, who are chalk-graved,
dry frail and brittle
pale bones under barrows—
poor fragments, those great ones.

But see, the austere lines
of downland are gladdened
splendid now, flaunting
armour of red-gold plate,
corn-stooks its studding;
new-from-old treasure
is this year's miraculous
rebirth in the harvest.

And so in all years
is nothing forgotten,
always the far dead things
new life begetting.

11 August 1945