The poem
I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard In field and farmstead many an ancient word Of local lineage like "Thu bist," "Er war," "Ich woll," "Er sholl," and by-talk similar, Nigh as they speak who in this month's moon gird At England's very loins, thereunto spurred By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.
Then seemed a Heart crying: "Whosoever they be At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we, Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame; May their familiars grow to shun their name, And their brood perish everlastingly."