Vii. Relics

(In Switzerland)

What relic of the dear, dead yesterday Shall my heart keep? The visionary light Of dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright, God does not give such memories away. Nor choose I one fair flower of those that sway To the chill breathing of the waterfall In rocky angles black with scattering spray, Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronal Of light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleam I choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noon Resting I found this speedwell, while a stream, That knew the immemorial inland croon, Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dream Of English meadows, and one perfect June.