WATCHERS

I think those townsmen, sleeping on the hill,

Are never careless how the Town may fare,

But jealous of her quiet beauty still,

Her ways and worth are things for which they care:

For shuttered house, and gateways and the grass,

And how the streets, tree-bordered all and cool,

Are still a pleasant way for folks to pass:

Men at their work and children home from school.

I cannot doubt that they are pleased to see

Their planted elms grown dearer year by year:

Their living witness unto such as we...

And they are less regretful when they hear

Some name we speak, some tale we tell again,

Of days when they were warm and living men.