Роберт Грейвс (Robert Graves)

On the Ridge

  Below the ridge a raven flew,
  And we heard the lost curlew
  Mourning out of sight below
  Mountain tops were touched with snow;
  Even the long dividing plain
  Showed no wealth of sheep or grain,
  But fields of boulders lay like corn
  And raven’s croak was shepherd’s horn
  To slow cloud shadow strayed across
  A pasture of thin heath and moss.
  The North Wind rose; I saw him press
  With lusty force against your dress,
  Moulding your body’s inward grace,
  And streaming off from your set face,
  So now no longer flesh and blood
  But poised in marble thought you stood;
  O wingless Victory, loved of men,
  Who could withstand your triumph then?