Hold Hard The Ancient Minutes
Hold
hard,
these
ancient
minutes
in
the
cuckoo's
month,
Under
the
lank,
fourth
folly
on
Glamorgan's
hill,
As
the
green
blooms
ride
upward,
to
the
drive
of
time;
Time,
in
a
folly's
rider,
like
a
county
man
Over
the
vault
of
ridings
with
his
hound
at
heel,
Drives
forth
my
men,
my
children,
from
the
hanging
south.
Country,
your
sport
is
summer,
and
December's
pools
By
crane
and
water-tower
by
the
seedy
trees
Lie
this
fifth
month
unstaked,
and
the
birds
have
flown;
Holy
hard,
my
country
children
in
the
world
if
tales,
The
greenwood
dying
as
the
deer
fall
in
their
tracks,
The
first
and
steepled
season,
to
the
summer's
game.
And
now
the
horns
of
England,
in
the
sound
of
shape,
Summon
your
snowy
horsemen,
and
the
four-stringed
hill,
Over
the
sea-gut
loudening,
sets
a
rock
alive;
Hurdles
and
guns
and
railings,
as
the
boulders
heave,
Crack
like
a
spring
in
vice,
bone
breaking
April,
Spill
the
lank
folly's
hunter
and
the
hard-held
hope.
Down
fall
four
padding
weathers
on
the
scarlet
lands,
Stalking
my
children's
faces
with
a
tail
of
blood,
Time,
in
a
rider
rising,
from
the
harnessed
valley;
Hold
hard,
my
country
darlings,
for
a
hawk
descends,
Golden
Glamorgan
straightens,
to
the
falling
birds.
Your
sport
is
summer
as
the
spring
runs
angrily.
