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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Junipers
Work rating: Low

Gray the slow sky darkens
 Over the downland track
 Where the long valley closes
 Under a smooth hill`s back.

 The slope is darkly sprinkled
 With ancient junipers,
 Each a small, secret tree:
 There not a breath stirs.

 I fear those waiting shapes
 Of wry, blue--berried wood.
 They make a twilight in my mind,
 As if they drained my blood,

 As if a spirit were prisoned
 Within each writhen stem,
 And no one knows their kindred
 Nor what frustrated them.

 Along the empty valley
 Like a ghost go I;
 My footsteps and my beating heart
 Nothing signify,

 Lost into nameless ages
 That come, slow cloud on cloud,
 From history`s beginning
 And all the future shroud.
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