At Stonehenge

Grim stones whose gray lips keep your secret well,

Our hands that touch you touch an ancient terror,

An ancient woe, colossal citadel

Of some fierce faith, some heaven-affronting error.

Rude-built, as if young Titans on this wold

Once played with ponderous blocks a striding giant

Had brought from oversea, till child more bold

Tumbled their temple down with foot defiant.

Upon your fatal altar Redbreast combs

A fluttering plume, and flocks of eager swallows

Dip fearlessly to choose their April homes

Amid your crevices and storm-beat hollows.

Even so in elemental mysteries,

Portentous, vast, august, uncomprehended,

Do we dispose our little lives for ease,

By their unconscious courtesies befriended.

The term "wold" at the end of line 5 refers to an area of land, usually flat grassy land above the level of its surroundings. Very common in the North of England and, although Stonehenge is in the south, the reference fits well.