Arising from the plain; a hill,
its like unknown, it’s age undreamed.
It trembled once upon a time,
So once it was believed. There I did wander restless,
Upon it’s slopes I took to climb
It’s sylvan hide,
flesh of lime;
now drowning in the depths of time.
And whose words there echoed on the wind?
Were they his?
Could they be mine?
I saw them scattered on the peak,
I saw them splinter,
Saw them shine.
Such words a poet hopes to speak,
Borne biting on the bre
“By the side of the Roman road between Ruckley and Acton Burnell, and half-way down the Causeway Bank, there rises out of a ferny, flowery bank a most beautiful spring, which drips into a deep rocky basin, partly natural, of great grey slabs of stone, placed there by the hand of man. Behind it rises the ancient Causeway Wood, with its yews and hollies, its ash and mountain-ash trees. The spring is never known to fail, even in the driest seasons. Its waters, say the folk, are