By Geoffrey Bache-Smith
Far away from sunny rills, Far away from golden broom, Far away from any town Whither merchants travel down— In a hollow of the hills In impenetrable gloom Sit the old forgotten kings Unto whom no poet sings, Unto whom none makes bequest, Unto whom no kingdoms rest,—— Only wayward shreds of dreams, And the sound of ancient streams, And the shock of ancient strife On the further shore of life. When our days are done, shall we Enter their pale company?