Cambridge Poets 1900–1913

Richard Buxton . THE GREY LAND. "HERE was a man who loved a wood so well , 1 Each separate tree , each flower and climbing weed , That at the last he thither went to dwell And mix himself with all those quiet things . Then gradually left him thought and deed Till dead were all his soul 's imaginings . So, day by day , All his own being gently flowed away And left him mixed indeed With flower and climbing weed With them in summer green , in autumn grey . So the grey country draws me till I go And make surrender of myself again ; The misty hill , the leaden stream below Are waiting to accept me when I will , And if my stubborn heart and hands complain A slow wind moves upon the misty hill And whispers to me here of peace and rest , Of union with stone and grass and tree , Where being sleeps and is not cursed or blessed , Where hands can never feel and eyes not see , Where life and death alike are grey , In this grey land that sucks my life away .