Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/76

 LINES WRITTEN IN THE BELIEF THAT THE ANCIENT ROMAN FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD WAS CALLED AMBARVALIA

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,

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,

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

With the first fear of night;