A LANDSCAPE BY COURBET

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still

And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear

To the utmost 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.