Classic Poem

My God, the wind is rising! on those edges
Of Cotswold dark glory might swing my soul —
And western Severn and north of water sedges
Mystery sounds, the wind's drums roll.
None will care to walk there. Those prefer to tell
Tales in a warm room of gossips, gettings, wages,
While I would be cursing exultant at the wind's toll
Of bell, shout of glory — swiftness of shadows.
My birth, my earning, my attained heritages,
Ninety times denied me now thrust so far in hell.

I think of the gods, all their old oaths and gages —
Gloucester has clear honour sworn without fail —
Companionship of meadows, high Cotswold ledges
Battered now tonight with huge wind-bursts and rages,
Flying moon glimpses like a shattered and flimsy sail —
In hell I, buried a score-depth, writing verse pages.