Page:The Yellow Book - 01.djvu/126

114 II—Night on Curbar Edge, Derbyshire

echo of man's life pursues my ears; Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign; Change comes not, this dread temple to profane, Where time by æons reckons, not by years. Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears, Type of whate'er is destined to remain While yon still host encamped on Night's waste plain Keeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears.

Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor; The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall, Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled: Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door; And there is built and 'stablisht over all Tremendous Silence, older than the world.