Iii

Here, where a green and dripping land Mounts to the softly dappled skies, And the invasive careless hand Of change defies,

Still seem those brown-clad forms to roam, To musing pause, or dreaming stand, Lone lookers for another home Than this green land.

Grass-grown their ruined walls still top Yon bare, brown hill, yon bleak, grey shore, Half-fallen, titanic plinths still prop A low, bent door.

Or under shudderings of the wave, Which on some dripping threshold fall, Yawns wide a dark, surf-fashioned cave Where sea-mews call,

Where far and free the foam-bells fly, And round its roof their white orbs toss, Yet ’mid whose gleamings we descry Half-hewn a cross.

Or low-roofed cave above some lake To whose damp sides no sunbeams stray, Yet where entangled ripples wake Dim dreams of day,

In sheaves, in lines of dancing light, Thin watery streaks of broken green, Whose interlacings cheat the sight, Dying ere seen.