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THE PATH
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!”
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