114 Two Sonnets
II—Night on Curbar Edge, Derbyshire
<poem> No echo of man's life pursues my ears; Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign; Change comes not, this dread temple to profane, Where time by aeons reckons, not by years. Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears, Type of whate er is destined to remain While yon still host encamped on Night's waste plain Keeps armed watch, a million quivering spears.
Hushed are the wild and wing d lives of the moor; The sleeping sheep nestle neath ruined wall, Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled: Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate s door; And there is built and 'stablisht over all Tremendous Silence, older than the world.