| SWINGS the way still by hollow and hill, | |
| And all the world’s a song; | |
| “She’s far,” it sings me, “but fair,” it rings me, | |
| “Quiet,” it laughs, “and strong!” | |
| |
| Oh! spite of the miles and years between us, | 5 |
| Spite of your chosen part, | |
| I do remember; and I go | |
| With laughter in my heart. | |
| |
| So above the little folk that know not, | |
| Out of the white hill-town, | 10 |
| High up I clamber; and I remember; | |
| And watch the day go down. | |
| |
| Gold is my heart, and the world’s golden, | |
| And one peak tipped with light; | |
| And the air lies still about the hill | 15 |
| With the first fear of night; | |
| |
| Till mystery down the soundless valley | |
| Thunders, and dark is here; | |
| And the wind blows, and the light goes, | |
| And the night is full of fear, | 20 |
| |
| And I know, one night, on some far height, | |
| In the tongue I never knew, | |
| I yet shall hear the tidings clear | |
| From them that were friends of you. | |
| |
| They’ll call the news from hill to hill, | 25 |
| Dark and uncomforted, | |
| Earth and sky and the winds; and I | |
| Shall know that you are dead. | |
| |
| I shall not hear your trentals, | |
| Nor eat your arval bread; | 30 |
| For the kin of you will surely do | |
| Their duty by the dead. | |
| |
| Their little dull greasy eyes will water; | |
| They’ll paw you, and gulp afresh. | |
| They’ll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep | 35 |
| Like flies on the cold flesh. | |
| |
| They will put pence on your grey eyes, | |
| Bind up your fallen chin, | |
| And lay you straight, the fools that loved you | |
| Because they were your kin. | 40 |
| |
| They will praise all the bad about you, | |
| And hush the good away, | |
| And wonder how they’ll do without you, | |
| And then they’ll go away. | |
| |
| But quieter than one sleeping, | 45 |
| And stranger than of old, | |
| You will not stir for weeping, | |
| You will not mind the cold; | |
| |
| But through the night the lips will laugh not, | |
| The hands will be in place, | 50 |
| And at length the hair be lying still | |
| About the quiet face. | |
| |
| With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief, | |
| And dim and decorous mirth, | |
| With ham and sherry, they’ll meet to bury | 55 |
| The lordliest lass of earth. | |
| |
| The little dead hearts will tramp ungrieving | |
| Behind lone-riding you, | |
| The heart so high, the heart so living, | |
| Heart that they never knew. | 60 |
| |
| I shall not hear your trentals, | |
| Nor eat your arval bread, | |
| Nor with smug breath tell lies of death | |
| To the unanswering dead. | |
| |
| With snuffle and sniff and handkerchief, | 65 |
| The folk who loved you not | |
| Will bury you, and go wondering | |
| Back home. And you will rot. | |
| |
| But laughing and half-way up to heaven, | |
| With wind and hill and star, | 70 |
| I yet shall keep, before I sleep, | |
| Your Ambarvalia. | |
