O bitter were the sorrow that could dull The sombre music of slow evening Here, where the old world is so beautiful That even lesser lips are moved to sing How the wide heron sails into the light Black as the cedarn shadows on the lawns Or stricken woodlands patient in decay, And river water murmurs through the night Until autumnal dawns Burn in the glass of Nadder’s watery way. Nay, these were they by whom the world was lost, To whom the world most richly gave: forlorn Beauty they worshipp’d, counting not the cost If of their torment beauty might be born; And life, the splendid flower of their delight, Loving too eagerly, they broke, and spill’d The perfume that the folded petals close Before its prime; yet their frail fingers white From that bruised bloom distill’d Uttermost attar of the living rose. Wherefore, O shining ones, I will not mourn You, who have ravish’d beauty’s secret ways Beneath death’s impotent shadow, suffering scorn, Hatred, and desolation in her praise.... Thus as I spoke their phantom faces smiled, As brooding night with heavy downward wing Fell upon Wilton’s elegiac stone, On the dark woodlands and the waters wild And every living thing-- Leaving me there amazèd and alone. PORTON WATER Through Porton village, under the bridge, A clear bourne floweth, with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of white clouds sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. Through Porton village we passed one day, Marching the plain for mile on mile, And crossed the bridge in single file, Happily singing, and marched away Over the bridge where the shallow races, Under a clear and frosty sky: And the winterbourne, as we marched by, Mirrored a thousand laughing faces. O, do we trouble you, Porton river, We who laughing passed, and after Found a resting-place for laughter? Over here, where the poplars shiver By stagnant waters, we lie rotten. On windless nights, in the lonely places, There, where the winter water races, O, Porton river, are we forgotten? Through Porton village, under the bridge, The clear bourne floweth with grasses trailing, Wherein are shadows of light cloud sailing, And elms that shelter under the ridge. The pale moon she comes and looks; Over the lonely spire she climbs; For there she is lovelier many times Than in the little broken brooks. AN OLD HOUSE No one lives in the old house; long ago The voices of men and women left it lonely. They shuttered the sightless windows in a row, Imprisoning empty darkness--darkness only.