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Heritage
When the rugged moor’s my comrade
And the barren hills my friends,
When I take delight in the winds of night
And ghostly twilight ends,
The ancient folk are waking.
They beat on my heart and brain ;
From a handful of dust comes wanderers’ lust
For traffic with wind and rain.
Their eyes are watching when I watch
The way that the wild deer went,
I hear their cry where the thin reeds sigh
On wastes of the naked bent.
Lost and gone and forgotten,
Old tracks by the bracken sown,
Mystical rites by the cold star lights
On an altar shaped from a stone.
But the moor shall be my comrade
And the hills my friends shall be,
Till life’s last snow falls chill and slow
On hill and moor and tree.
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