Henry Newbolt

Among the woods and tillage
    That fringe the topmost downs,
  All lonely lies the village,
    Far off from seas and towns.
  Yet when her own folk slumbered
    I heard within her street
  Murmur of men unnumbered
    And march of myriad feet.

  For all she lies so lonely,
    Far off from towns and seas,
  The village holds not only
    The roofs beneath her trees:
  While Life is sweet and tragic
    And Death is veiled and dumb,
  Hither, by singer's magic,
    The pilgrim world must come.