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Excerpt from Lusus
Where Burford falters on the hill And fears to face the breeze, The Priory stands gaunt and still, The rooks cry in the trees, And ever peace and sorrow brood Where once the sounding cloister stood.
On low grey roofs the sun looks down, The road is broad and steep, And nothing stirs within the town So solemnly asleep; The smoke that upward slowly streams Is like the restfulness of dreams.
Below, the old grey Church, where wars Unholy con¿ict stirred, Now proudly patient of her scars, Stands last of all the herd.
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