I

Standing on Tara with Kavanagh
Wrapped in an old raincoat like
A scarecrow giant, and reminded
Of the other hill, Phaestos in Crete,
Of vastness and accurate light,
Though here the horizon is mist
And the wind is wet as Ireland;

It's somehow the same panorama,
Wide as the world is commonplace,
And ordinary as sacred;
The living, dead, romantic ghosts
Inhabiting the expressionless
Are genii loci here to lend a
Mirror to material nature.

I'd seen and thought the same upon
A high and Roman outpost set
...