II—Night on Curbar Edge, Derbyshire
No echo of man’s life pursues my ears ;1
Nothing disputes this Desolation’s reign
;2
Change comes not, this dread temple to profane,3
Where time by æons reckons, not by years.4
Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears,5
Type of whate’er is destined to remain6
While yon still host encamped on Night’s waste plain7
Keeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears.8
Hushed are the wild and wing’d lives of the moor ;9
The sleeping sheep nestle ’neath ruined wall,10
Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled :11
Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate’s door ;12
And there is built and ’stablisht over all13
Tremendous Silence, older than the world.14