Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland, br On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf, br Where the bent grass beats upon the unplowed poorland br And the pine-woods roar like the surf. br br Here the Roman lived on the wind-barren lonely, br Dark now and haunted by the moorland fowl; br None comes here now but the peewit only, br And moth-like death in the owl. br br Beauty was here in on this beetle-droning downland; br The thought of a Caesar in the purple came br From the palace by the Tiber in the Roman townland br To this wind-swept hill with no name. br br Lonely Beauty came here and was here in sadness, br Brave as a thought on the frontier of the mind, br In the camp of the wild upon the march of madness, br The bright-eyed Queen of the Blind. br br Now where Beauty was are the wind-withered gorses, br Moaning like old men in the hill-wind's blast; br The flying sky is dark with running horses, br And the night is full of the past.