| Of that long cloud-bar in the West,
Whose nether edge, erelong, you see
The silvery chrism in turn anoint,
And then the tiniest rosy point
Touched doubtfully and timidly
Into the dark blue's chilly strip,
As some mute, wondering thing below,
Awakened by the thrilling glow,
Might, looking up, see Dian dip
One lucent foot's delaying tip
In Latmian fountains long ago.

Here is no startle of dreaming bird
Knew you what silence was before?
That sings in his sleep, or strives to
sing;

Here is no sough of branches stirred,
Nor noise of any living thing,

Such as one hears by night on shore;
Only, now and then, a sigh,

With fickle intervals between,
Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh,
Such as Andromeda might have heard,
And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen
Turning in sleep; it is the sea
That welters and wavers uneasily
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.

fully

Feeling their way to my sense, sang,
Say whether

They sit all day by the greenwood tree, The lover and loved, as it wont to be,

When we

But grief conquered,

and all together They swelled such weird murmur as

haunts a shore

Of some planet dispeopled,

more!"

If earth another grave must bear,

Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers my despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down, "We meet again!"