In Memory, IV

Glimmering lake, waters of Windermere! Winchester your name must be: Or is all an evening dream? Nay! Winton waters wander here, Delighting me, Down through that ancient bridge, that old-world stream.

I lean against the old, pillared balustrade: Now upon the red, worn mill, Now upon the rapid race, Poring: or where, within the shade Of freshly chill, Low arches, wallflowers hide their homely grace.

Swiftly descend those waters of the weir: Sweeping past old cottages, Curving round, ah, happy tide! Into sight of towers most dear, Of ancient trees Loved all by heart: glad stream, who there may glide!

Farewell, whom I have loved so in gone years! Up the little climbing street, To the memoried Church I pass, Church of Saint John: whence loving tears Made the way sweet, Saddest of ways, unto the holy grass.

Up the slow hill, people and holy Cross Bore thee to the sleeping place, Malise! whom thy lovers weep. Spring lilies crown from the soft moss Thy silent face, All peaceful, Malise! in thy perfect sleep.

Ah! far away, far by the watered vale, By the seaward-rolling hills, Lies he, by the gray-towered walls. Northern calm lake, wild northern dale, Gently fulfils, Each, its serene enchauntment: and night falls.

Windermere gleams: as would some shadowy space Out from willowed dream-world drawn. Under the pure silence, earth Looks up to heaven, with tranquil face: And patient dawn, Behind the purple hills, dreams toward the birth.