AT TINTERN ABBEY

O Tintern, Tintern! evermore my dreams

Troubled by thy grave beauty shall be born;

Thy crumbling loveliness and ivy streams

Shall speak to me for ever, from this morn;

The wind-wild daws about thy arches drifting,

Clouds sweeping o'er thy ruin to the sea,

Gray Tintern, all the hills about thee, lifting

Their misty waving woodland verdancy!

The centuries that draw thee to the earth

In envy of thy desolated charm,

The summers and the winters, the sky's girth

Of sunny blue or bleakness, seek thy harm.

But would that I were Time, then only tender

Touch upon thee should fall as on I sped;

Of every pillar would I be defender,

Of every mossy window — of thy dead!

Thy dead beneath obliterated stones

Upon the sod that is at last thy floor,

Who list the Wye not as it lonely moans

Nor heed thy Gothic shadows grieving o'er.

O Tintern, Tintern! trysting-place, where never

Are wanting mysteries that move the breast,

I'll hear thy beauty calling, ah, for ever —

Till sinks within me the last voice to rest!