Enduring English Royalty
The clouds, most transient of all, float there
Above the little lake, more like a pond
Of molten lead with silver from the air—
Reflecting cumulus concerns beyond
The scene below. A nestled glowing town
Is tucked up in the trees. Maybe they
Will die before the houses are pulled down
By time. How long can heath-swept slope delay
Its own death armored as those flanks are, furze
And heather only, looking like a cat
Asleep, a lion slumbering which slurs
Across the county like an autocrat.
An eon — longer surely — this beast still
Will hunker here, this Shropshire sovereign hill.