Haystacks

Winding across a highland on a wild October day,
By small and yellow haystacks the road crept humbly on,
Blue herds of dark-maned stallions tossed madly in the sky,
And raced across the blots of woods and fields of wind-quiet stone.

Purple and gold and violet greys and gleaming shades unknown
Leaped up and flashed and faded out within the marvelling soul
That, creeping on that narrow road, passed brooding squat and still
Those small dim stacks as dreams heaped up by men in bitter toil:

As dreams heaped up, as memoried hills, as generations gone
Into the ground, and here arisen as quiet as hills of stone;
But linked along the roads they built to catch each human sound
That quavering in the cold wind-light is sinking to its doom.

And still the dark blue stallions race and toss white flakes of foam,
And still the dark fields lie as quiet as wind-forsaken stone,
And still along that humble road the silent soul plods on,
And still the small dim stacks lie there, the dreams of men unknown.