Poem by Charles Hamilton Sorley

J. B.

There's still a horse on Granham hill,
And still the Kennet moves, and still
Four Miler sways and is not still.
⁠But where is her interpreter?

The downs are blown into dismay,
The stunted trees seem all astray,
Looking for someone clad in grey
⁠And carrying a golf-club thing;

Who, them when he had lived among,
Gave them what they desired, a tongue.
Their words he gave them to be sung
⁠Perhaps were few, but they were true.

The trees, the downs, on either hand,
Still stand, as he said they would stand.
But look, the rain in all the land
⁠Makes all things dim with tears of him.

And recently the Kennet croons,
And winds are playing widowed tunes.
—He has not left our "toun o' touns,"
⁠But taken it away with him! 

1. Marlborough
2. To Poets
3. In Memoriam S. C. W., V.C.
4. Autumn Dawn
5. A Hundred Thousand Million Mites We Go

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