Near Hastings, on the shingle-beach,
We loitered at the time
When ripens on the wall the peach,
The autumn's lovely prime.
Far off,—the sea and sky seemed blent,
The day was wholly done,
The distant town its murmurs sent,
Strangers,—we were alone.
We wandered slow; sick, weary, faint,
Then one of us sat down,
No nature hers, to make complaint; —
The shadows deepened brown.
A lady past,—she was not young,
But oh! her gentle face
No painter-poet ever sung,
Or saw such saintlike grace.