Duncton Hill
J. Raynor
He does not die I wrote that can bequeath
Some influence to the land he knows,
Or dares, persistent, interwreath
Love permanent with the wild hedgerows;
He does not die but still remains
Substantiate with his darling plains.
The spring's superb adventure calls
His dust athwart the woods to flame;
His boundary river's secret falls
Perpetuate and repeat his name.
He rides his loud October sky:
He does not die. He does not die.
The beeches know the accustomed head
Which loved them, and a peopled air
Beneath their benediction spread
Comforts the silence everywhere;
For native ghosts return and these
Perfect the mystery in the trees.
So, therefore, though myself be crost
The shuddering of that dreadful day
When friend and fire and home are lost
And even children drawn away --
The passer-by shall hear me still,
A boy that sings on Duncton Hill.