  So the dark shadows deepen in the trees That crown the border mountains, all the air Is filled with mist-begotten phantasies Shaped and transfigured in the sunset glare. What wildly spurring warrior-wraiths are these? What tossing headgear, and what red-gold hair? What lances flashing, what far trumpet’s blare, That dies along the desultory breeze? Slow night comes creeping with her misty wings Up to the hill’s crest, where the yew trees grow; About their shadow-haunted circle clings The rumour of an unrecorded woe, Old as the battle of those border kings Slain in the darkling hollow-lands below. |
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