A Spring Harvest/The Old Kings
THE OLD KINGS
Far away from sunny rills,Far away from golden broom,Far away from any townWhither merchants travel down—In a hollow of the hillsIn impenetrable gloomSit the old forgotten kingsUnto whom no poet sings,Unto whom none makes bequest,Unto whom no kingdoms rest,———Only wayward shreds of dreams,And the sound of ancient streams,And the shock of ancient strifeOn the further shore of life......When our days are done, shall weEnter their pale company?