There are mummers yet on Cotswold,
Though Will Squele he lies low,
And men sow wheat on headlands
That other men see grow.
Eyes close and copper weights them;
Babes as blind come to birth;
Though John Gaunt's bets are ended
And shallow Shallow's mirth.
Ivor Gurney
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/generations-there-are-mummers-yet-on-cotswold/
