Classic Poem

There is a coppice on Cotswold's edge the winds love;
It blasts so, and from below there one sees move
Tree-branches like water darkling — and I write thus
At the year's end, in nine hell-depths, with such memories;
I guess that rocks and heaves like west Irish seas;
Where the kite is this evening, that loves rock and hover
About the thin wood growth, I shall not know, cannot discover
Only guess dark ridge edge, and the gloomed valley's
Magnificence below them first night does cover.

The coppice of thin and great trees as nobly set
Against Wales for Cotswold, as it were the gate
Of Britain watching Britain, refusing ever
To acknowledge Rome; great shapes by older barrows;
That longs for me tonight as if my name were great
And owner of that swift fall, that wind-beaten swerve:
Were sayer of what the wood's heart could never forget.