His wage of rest at nightfall still
He takes, who sixty years has known
Of ploughing over Cotsall hill
And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.
He meditates the dusk, and sees
Folds of his wonted shepherdings
And lands of stubble and tall trees
Becoming insubstantial things.
And does he see on Cotsall hill --
Thrown even to the central shire --
The funnelled shapes forbidding still
The stranger from his cottage fire?
J. W. Cunliffe, ed. Poems of the Great War. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1916.