The glens are old:
And they have called to other ears
In backward swinging long-forgotten years
In which the evening gold
Has faded from the withered flowers,
And smiles that grew
On lovely faces, and the tears
That fell like dew,
Are vanished with man’s stateliest towers.
Strange faces then,
And unfamiliar voices, all
Belonging who before us fell in thrall
To the magic of the glen.
And every tree that therein grows,
Pale ash and beech,
Stout sycamore and chestnut tall,
Dark elm, could each
If so designed long histories disclose.
I love each dell,
And think therein I have a friend
In my affection, deathless, without end;
But thinking, it is well
For me to know these hollows fold
More friends than me,
And in some way they comprehend
My threnody !
The glens are old, so very old.
Mona’s Herald 9.1.62