They form, these hill-holding uneven elms and limes,
A Hercules in great trouble, for our troubling times,
Lashed down by dwarfs, not resting at ease,
Unable at all, heave, thresh, as he may in a great September wind,
To snap the dwarfs’ fruit-net of fine strings.
Wind drops, his efforts cease, he has no strength,
Arrows of rain pelt on his prostrate length,
Great Dorset Hercules being no longer lifting thighs and knees
Has again collapsed to a soughing moaning rough run of trees.
A Myth Enacted
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