WINTON, my window with a mossy marge,
My lofty oriel, whence the soul hath sight
Of passionate yesterdays, all gold and large,
Arisen to enrich our narrow night:
Though others bless thee, who so blest before
Hath pastured from the violent time apart,
And laved in supersensual light the heart
Alone with thy magnificent No More?
Sweet court of roses now, sweet camp of bees!
The hills that lean to thy white bed at dawn
Hear, for the clash of raging dynasties,
Laughter of boys about a branchy lawn.
Hast thou a stain, let ivy cover all;
Nor seem of greatness disinhabited
While spirits in their wonted splendour tread
From close to close, by Wolvesey's idle wall.
Bright fins against thy lucid waters leap,
And nigh thy towers the nesting ring-doves dwell;
Be lenient winter, and long moons, and sleep
Upon thee; but on me the sharp Farewell.
Happy art thou, O clad and crowned with rest!
Happy the shepherd (would that I were he!)
Whose early way is step for step with thee,
Whose old brow fades on thine immortal breast.