"An island like a little book Full of a hundred tales, Like the gilt page the good monks pen, That is all smaller than a wren, Yet hath high towns, meteors, and men, And suns and spouting whales;"A land having a light on it In the river dark and fast, An isle with utter clearness lit, Because a saint had stood in it;Where flowers are flowers indeed and fit, And trees are trees at last.

"So were the island of a saint;

But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing."And it fell in the days of Alfred, In the days of his repose, That as old customs in his sight Were a straight road and a steady light, He bade them keep the White Horse white As the first plume of the snows.

And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day.

And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full.

And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old."And even as he said it A post ran in amain, Crying: "Arm, Lord King, the hamlets arm, In the horror and the shade of harm, They have burnt Brand of Aynger's farm--The Danes are come again!

"Danes drive the white East Angles In six fights on the plains, Danes waste the world about the Thames, Danes to the eastward--Danes!"And as he stumbled on one knee, The thanes broke out in ire, Crying: "Ill the watchmen watch, and ill The sheriffs keep the shire."But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guard The land wherein we pledge them gold;The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard, "That we be never quit of them;That when his head is hoar He cannot say to them he smote, And spared with a hand hard at the throat, `Go, and return no more.' "Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power.

But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour.

"Will ye part with the weeds for ever?

Or show daisies to the door?

Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more?

"So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free;Treason and shame shall come to pass While one weed flowers in a morass;And like the stillness of stiff grass The stillness of tyranny.

"Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of grass, And sadder than their sigh.

"And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am;But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of grass grows here;Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram.

"And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true:

If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew.

"One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell;But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God."Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's.

Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of God Burns over Glastonbury.

Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky.