Night on Curbar Edge

No echo of man's life pursues my ears;Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign;Change comes not, this dread temple to profane,Where time by æons reckons, not by years.Its patient form one crag, sole-stranded, rears,Type of whate'er is destined to remainWhile yon still host encamped on Night's waste plainKeeps armèd watch, a million quivering spears.

Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor;The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall,Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled:Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door;And there is built and 'stablisht over allTremendous Silence, older than the world.