Henry Newbolt

Yattendon

Among the woods and tillage
  That fringe the topmost downs,
All lonely lies the village,
  Far off from seas and towns.
Yet when her own folk slumbered
  I heard within her street
Murmur of men unnumbered
  And march of myriad feet.

For all she lies so lonely,
  Far off from towns and seas,
The village holds not only
  The roofs beneath her trees:
While Life is sweet and tragic
  And Death is veiled and dumb,
Hither, by singer's magic,
  The pilgrim world must come.