Is it an abbey that I see Hard-by that tapering poplar-tree, Whereat that path hath end? 'Tis wondrous still That empty hill, Yet calls me, friend. Smooth is the turf, serene the sky, The timeworn, crumbling roof awry; Within that turret slim Hangs there a bell Whose faint notes knell? Do colours dim Burn in that angled window there, Grass-green, and crimson, azure rare? Would, from that narrow door, One, looking in, See, gemlike, shine On walls and floor Candles whose aureole flames must seem -- So still they burn -- to burn in dream? And do they cry, and say, 'See, stranger; come! Here is thy home; No longer stray!' |