Richard
Buxton .
THE GREY LAND.
"HERE
was
a man
who loved
a
wood
so well ,
1
Each
separate
tree ,
each
flower
and
climbing
weed ,
That at
the last he thither went
to dwell
And mix
himself
with
all
those
quiet
things
.
Then
gradually
left
him
thought
and
deed
Till
dead
were all
his
soul
's
imaginings
.
So,
day
by
day
,
All
his
own
being
gently
flowed
away
And left
him
mixed
indeed
With
flower
and
climbing
weed
With
them
in
summer
green
,
in
autumn
grey
.
So
the
grey
country
draws me till
I
go
And make
surrender
of
myself
again
;
The
misty
hill
,
the leaden
stream
below
Are waiting
to
accept me
when
I
will
,
And
if
my
stubborn
heart
and
hands
complain
A
slow
wind moves
upon
the misty
hill
And
whispers
to
me here
of
peace
and rest
,
Of union with
stone
and
grass
and
tree
,
Where being
sleeps
and
is
not cursed
or
blessed
,
Where
hands
can never
feel
and
eyes not
see
,
Where
life and death
alike
are
grey
,
In
this
grey
land
that
sucks my
life away
.