On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MAN CHILD IS BORN (1809) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE WOOING by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR NO LONGER COULD I DOUBT HIM TRUE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR HESPERUS THE BRINGER by SAPPHO THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED by CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY MY CRYSTAL BRIDE by WILLIAM EDWARD ADAMS APRIL by OBADIAH CYRUS AURINGER |