The Grey Comrades Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

Out of the dust of cities and the din of men
I come to the clean spaces of the wide windy moors,
Saying: 'Glad, O my kindred, I come hither again,' -
Saying: 'Hail me, my comrades, for my heart is yours.'

O voices calling and crying in the shadows grey,
Telling the dear tales over that were long since told;
Keepers of sweet memories from a bygone day,
Kind bountiful bosoms and brows wise from of old!

Centuries long they have listened to the four winds' rage;
They hearken the puny plaining of a little world's annoy;
They have known earth in the making, they live from age unto age,
Yet remember an hour's sorrow and a moment's joy.

'Here,' they say, 'were you happy on a morn of Spring,
Here sang your heart like a harp that the wind swept;
Here are paths that are holy by the dreams they bring,
Here in a grey gloaming you lay down and wept.'

'Years go by with their burden of what once has been,
Here is never forgetting on the grey breast of the moors:
Ah the voices of friendship that were here yestreen,
Ah the footstep beloved keeping time with yours.'

O wise hills and tender! aglow with beacons afar
That kindle fires of the past from embers faded and grey,
Keeping our heart's lamp burning through the dark hours that are
Between to-night's twilight and to-morrow's day!