The hectic autumn's dilatory fire
Has turned this lime tree to a sevenfold brand,
Which, self-consuming, lights the sunless land,
A death to which all poet souls aspire.
Above the graves, where all men's vain desire
Is hushed at last as by a Mother's hand.
And, Time confounded, Love's blank records stand,
The Evensong swells from the pulsing choir.
What incommunicable presence clings
To this grey church and willowy twilight stream?
Am I the dupe of some delusive dream?
Or, like faint fluid phosphorescent rings
On refluent seas, doth Shakespeare's spirit gleam
Pervasive round these old familiar things?