Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear To the soft verge where fed with many a rill Low lies the mere. The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. Strange, as we praise the dead man's might and skill, Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer, While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will, Low lies the mere. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EUMENIDES: CHORUS by AESCHYLUS THE ARGONAUTS (ARGONATUICA): MEDEA'S PARTING WORDS by APOLLONIUS RHODIUS MOCK EPITAPH ON MR. AND MRS. ESTLIN by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE STATESMEN by AMBROSE BIERCE |