By Sidney Keyes
No room for mourning: he’s gone out
Into the noisy glen, or stands between the stones
Of the gaunt ridge, or you’ll hear his shout
Rolling among the screes, he being a boy again.
He’ll never fail nor die
And if they laid his bones
In the wet vaults or iron sarcophagi
Of fame, he’d rise at the first summer rain
And stride across the hills to seek
His rest among the broken lands and clouds.
He was a stormy day, a granite peak
Spearing the sky; and look, about its base
Words flowing like crocuses in the hanging woods,
Blank though the dalehead and the bony face.