On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; <br />His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; <br />The gale, it plies the saplings double, <br />And thick on Severn snow the leaves. <br /> <br />'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger <br />When Uricon the city stood; <br />'Tis the old wind in the old anger, <br />But then it threshed another wood. <br /> <br />Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman <br />At yonder heaving hill would stare; <br />The blood that warms an English yeoman, <br />The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. <br /> <br />There, like the wind through woods in riot, <br />Through him the gale of life blew high; <br />The tree of man was never quiet: <br />Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. <br /> <br />The gale, it plies the saplings double, <br />It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: <br />Today the Roman and his trouble <br />Are ashes under Uricon.<br /><br />Alfred Edward Housman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-wenlock-edge-the-wood-s-in-trouble/
