THE GREEN VALLEY

Here in the green scooped valley I walk to and fro. In all my journeyings I have not seen A place so tranquil, so green; And yet I think I have seen it long ago, The grassy slopes, and the cart-track winding, so. O now I remember it well, now all is plain, Why twitched my memory like a dowser’s rod At waters hidden under sod. When I was a child they told me of Charlemagne, Of Gan the traitor, and Roland outmatched and slain. Weeping for Roland then, I scooped in my spirit A scant green Roncesvalles, a holy ground, Which here in Dorset I’ve found: But finding, I knew it not. The years disinherit Their children. The horn is blown, but I do not hear it.