A Grey, Bald Hillside, Bristling Here And There With Leprous-Looking Grass, That, Knobbed With Stones, Slopes To A Valley Where A Wild Stream Moans, And Every Bush Seems Tortured To Despair And Shows Its Teeth Of Thorns As If To Tear All Things To Pieces: Where The Skull And Bones Of Some Dead Beast Protrude, Like Visible Groans, From One Bleak Place The Winter Rains Washed Bare. Amid The Desolation, In Decay, Like Some Half-Rotted Fungus, Grey As Slag, A Hut Of Lichened Logs; And Near It, Old, Unspeakably Old, A Man, The Colour Of Clay, Sorting Damp Roots And Herbs Into A Bag With Trembling Hands Purple And Stiff With Cold.