Things Common, Properly [antikvár]

THE QUESTERS How fade the glories of forgotten days Within these castle walls! The lives of old In fadeless drifts of crimsons, browns gold Piled high against the iron stone make blaze With constant memories the autumnal haze, That still for us the antique tale be told Of times when o'er the sloping hills there rolled The distant horn that sounded lost forays. Faces once through windows glanced, cheek to stone Was laid and so remained, as once the sigh Of hushed moat-water yielded love's assent. Naught's fled: we Questers live! - alone Beyond the chaliced valley, over Wye Where dreams in silent woods the Land of Gwent. St Briavels Castle, 1942