Last night I fell to dream
of Castle Combe,
Its shambling mists and tawny stream,
the holy pathos of its homes.
Wind-washed clouds, the lunar gleam
of cream-colored stone.
And there, somewhere between
drowsy dusk and day, I stood alone
In fevered dream,
in Cotswold cold,
Woke to air, moon-tide dimmed,
and the lulled hush of wool-
Soft hymns
with all hope gone.
