This is from the Ballad of the White Horse:
And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way;
That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day.
For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home;
And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome.
And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay;
But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play.
He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were;
And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair.
Therefore is Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave;
And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred’s grave.
Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb;
And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom.
And as a child whose bricks fall down Re-piles them o’er and o’er, Came ruin and the rain that burns, Returning as a wheel returns,
And crouching in the furze and ferns He began his life once more.
That made sense, right? Or, maybe a little more explanation is needed?