At Stonehenge

Grim stones whose gray lips keep your secret well, Our hands that touch you touch an ancient terror, An ancient woe, colossal citadel Of some fierce faith, some heaven-affronting error. Rude-built, as if young Titans on this wold Once played with ponderous blocks a striding giant Had brought from oversea, till child more bold Tumbled their temple down with foot defiant. Upon your fatal altar Redbreast combs A fluttering plume, and flocks of eager swallows Dip fearlessly to choose their April homes Amid your crevices and storm-beat hollows. Even so in elemental mysteries, Portentous, vast, august, uncomprehended, Do we dispose our little lives for ease, By their unconscious courtesies befriended.