Sir Henry John Newbolt (1862–1938)

I SAT by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell

Where the sunlight fell of old,

And the hour was the hour my heart remember’d well,

And the sermon roll’d and roll’d

As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted,

And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.

And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound

That I so clearly heard,

The green young forest of saplings cluster’d round

Was heeding not one word:

Their heads were bow’d in a still serried patience

Such as an angel’s breath could never have stirr’d.

For some were already away to the hazardous pitch,

Or lining the parapet wall,

And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich,

Or throned in a college hall:

And among the rest was one like my own young phantom,

Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.

‘O Youth,’ the preacher was crying, ‘deem not thou

Thy life is thine alone;

Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how

They built thee bone by bone,

And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred

Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone.

‘Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burn

With passion whitely hot;

Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn

All that thy hand hath got;

And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly

Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not.’

And the School pass’d; and I saw the living and dead

Set in their seats again,

And I long’d to hear them speak of the word that was said,

But I knew that I long’d in vain.

And they stretch’d forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them

Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.