Night Is On The Downland, On The Lonely Moorland, On The Hills Where The Wind Goes Over Sheep-Bitten Turf, Where The Bent Grass Beats Upon The Unplowed Poorland And The Pine-Woods Roar Like The Surf. Here The Roman Lived On The Wind-Barren Lonely, Dark Now And Haunted By The Moorland Fowl; None Comes Here Now But The Peewit Only, And Moth-Like Death In The Owl. Beauty Was Here In On This Beetle-Droning Downland; The Thought Of A Caesar In The Purple Came From The Palace By The Tiber In The Roman Townland To This Wind-Swept Hill With No Name. Lonely Beauty Came Here And Was Here In Sadness, Brave As A Thought On The Frontier Of The Mind, In The Camp Of The Wild Upon The March Of Madness, The Bright-Eyed Queen Of The Blind. Now Where Beauty Was Are The Wind-Withered Gorses, Moaning Like Old Men In The Hill-Wind'S Blast; The Flying Sky Is Dark With Running Horses, And The Night Is Full Of The Past.