I came too late to the hills: they were swept bare

Winters before I was born of song and story,

Of spell or speech with power of oracle or invocation,

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The great ash long dead by a roofless house, its branches rotten,

The voice of the crows in inarticulate cry,

And from the wells and springs the holy water ebbed away.

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A child I ran in the wind on a withered moor

Crying out after those great presences who were not there,

Long lost in the forgetfulness of the forgotten.

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Only the archaic forms themselves could tell

In sacred speech of hoodie on grey stone, or hawk in air,

Of Eden where the lonely rowan bends over the dark pool.

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Yet I have glimpsed the bright mountain behind the mountain,

Knowledge under the leaves, tasted the bitter berries red,

Drunk water cold and clear from an inexhaustible hidden fountain.