Near the grey burn in spate,
Hangs the solemn cell.
Hard by the abbey's gate,
And under its spell,
Prison of crumbing stone
That covered well
He who was born great,
Therein to dwell.
Seven hundred years hence
Under the crumbling hill,
Will the old tales make sense
And will the sign still
Make its significance
Or be upset quite,
By the magnificence
Of that serene light.
Seven hundred years have passed,
Under the rainy slope,
And the meanings hold fast,
Never quite losing hope.
Would we were Gods not men,
Then we could see
The heroes that lived then,
Wiser than we.
