by Max Akroyd
Always dear to me was this lonely hill, And this hedgerow, which from many sides Bars the gaze from the utmost horizon. But sitting and looking out, endless Spaces beyond that hedge, and superhuman Silences, and profoundest quietude, I in my mind forge for myself: where the heart Is all but terrified. And as I hear the wind rustle between these plants, That infinite silence to this voice I go on To compare: and I recall the eternal, And the dead seasons, and the present, living one, And the sound of her. So in this Immensity my thought drowns: And shipwreck to me is sweet in this sea.