  A wind is brushing down the clover, It sweeps the tossing branches bare, Blowing the poising kestrel over The crumbling ramparts of the Caer. It whirls the scattered leaves before us Along the dusty road to home, Once it awakened into chorus The heart-strings in the ranks of Rome. There by the gusty coppice border The shrilling trumpets broke the halt, The Roman line, the Roman order, Swayed forwards to the blind assault. Spearman and charioteer and bowman Charged and were scattered into spray, Savage and taciturn the Roman Hewed upwards in the Roman way. There—in the twilight—where the cattle Are lowing home across the fields, The beaten warriors left the battle Dead on the clansmen’s wicker shields. The leaves whirl in the wind’s riot Beneath the Beacon’s jutting spur, Quiet are clan and chief, and quiet Centurion and signifer. |
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