On Wenlock Edge

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;The gale, it plies the saplings double,And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'T would blow like this through holt and hangerWhen Uricon the city stood:'T is the old wind in the old anger,But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 't was before my time, the RomanAt yonder heaving hill would stare:The blood that warms an English yeoman,The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,Through him the gale of life blew high;The tree of man was never quiet:Then 't was the Roman, now 't is I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,It blows so hard, 't will soon be gone:To-day the Roman and his troubleAre ashes under Urieon.