To Olivier Georges Destrée
IN Merioneth, over the sad moor
Drives the rain, the cold wind blows:
Past the ruinous church door,
The poor procession without music goes.
Lonely she wandered out her hour, and died.
Now the mournful curlew cries
Over her, laid down beside
Death’s lonely people: lightly down she lies.
In Merioneth, the wind lives and wails,
On from hill to lonely hill:
Down the loud, triumphant gales,
A spirit cries Be strong! and cries Be still!
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