Far and near and low and louder

The dews drop slowly and dreams gather: unknown spears
Suddenly hurtle before my dream-awakened eyes
And then the clash of fallen horseman and the cries
Of unknown perishing armies beat about my ears.
We who still labour by the cromlech on the shore,
The grey cairn on the hill, when day sinks drowned in dew
Being weary of the world's empires, bow down to you.
Master of the still stars and of the flaming door.

- "The Valley of the Black Pig," W.B. Yeats, 1895

On the idle hill of summer
Sleepy with the flow of streams,
Far I hear the steady drummer
Drumming like a noise in dreams.

Far and near and low and louder
On the roads of earth go by,
Dear to friends and food for powder,
Soldiers marching, all to die.

East and west on fields forgotten
Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
None that go return again.

Far the calling bugles hollo,
High the screaming fife replies,
Gay the files of scarlet follow:
Woman bore me, I will rise.

- from A Shropshire Lad, No. 35, A.E. Housman, 1895.