ON THE RIDGE
Below the ridge a raven flew,
And we heard the lost curlew
Mourning out of sight below
Mountain tops were touched with snow;
Even the long dividing plain
Showed no wealth of sheep or grain,
But fields of boulders lay like corn
And raven’s croak was shepherd’s horn
To slow cloud shadow strayed across
A pasture of thin heath and moss.
The North Wind rose; I saw him press
With lusty force against your dress,
Moulding your body’s inward grace,
And streaming off from your set face,
So now no longer flesh and blood
But poised in marble thought you stood;
O wingless Victory, loved of men,
Who could withstand your triumph then?