Viewed yesterday, in sad elusive light,
These everlasting heptarchs, tree by tree,
Seemed filing off to exile, lingeringly,
Each with his giant falchion, kinless quite.
All the wild winter day and flooded night
They feigned to march far as the eye could see,
Through transient oceans plunging to the knee
Their centuried greaves, ebon and malachite.

To-day, accustomed bole and branch all bare
Stand with old gems inlaid. Like coloured snow
Or vista'd flame along the drowsy air,
Their gold-green lichens cling again and glow.
What secret craftsmen painted them so fair?
Angels of Moisture and the Long Ago.