A wind is brushing down the clover,

It sweeps the tossing branches bare,

Blowing the poising kestrel over

The crumbling ramparts of the Caer.

It whirls the scattered leaves before us

Along the dusty road to home,

Once it awakened into chorus

The heart-strings in the ranks of Rome.

There by the gusty coppice border

The shrilling trumpets broke the halt,

The Roman line, the Roman order,

Swayed forwards to the blind assault.

Spearman and charioteer and bowman

Charged and were scattered into spray,

Savage and taciturn the Roman

Hewed upwards in the Roman way.

There—in the twilight—where the cattle

Are lowing home across the fields,

The beaten warriors left the battle

Dead on the clansmen’s wicker shields.

The leaves whirl in the wind’s riot

Beneath the Beacon’s jutting spur,

Quiet are clan and chief, and quiet

Centurion and signifer.