Honeycomb

A million miles of stone walls
Ramble and streak from hill to hill;
Wherever sun or shadow falls
They rise, obedient and still.

The country is a honeycomb,
With cells of stone and sheep for bees;
The walls look down on seething foam,
On ragged bog and prospering trees.

The men who built them long are gone;
Their work is done, their time is fled;
They rest, unseeing of the dawn,
Numbered with the unnumbered dead.

Wherever stone is piled on stone,
There stands a nameless monument
To nameless men who toiled alone;
And God alone knows where they went.