Saint Florent-le-Vieil
THE spacious open vale, the vale of doom,Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strongThe semicirque of water sweeps amongHer lofty acres, each a martyr’s tomb;And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloomTwo little idling clouds, that look for longLike roseleaf bodies of two babes in songCorreggio left to flush a convent room.Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war!In my day, rather, have I seen thee blestWith pastoral roofs to break the darker crestOf apple-woods by many-islèd Loire,And fires that still suffuse the lower west,Blanching the beauty of thine evening star.
THE spacious open vale, the vale of doom,Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strongThe semicirque of water sweeps amongHer lofty acres, each a martyr’s tomb;And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloomTwo little idling clouds, that look for longLike roseleaf bodies of two babes in songCorreggio left to flush a convent room.Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war!In my day, rather, have I seen thee blestWith pastoral roofs to break the darker crestOf apple-woods by many-islèd Loire,And fires that still suffuse the lower west,Blanching the beauty of thine evening star.
THE spacious open vale, the vale of doom,Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strongThe semicirque of water sweeps amongHer lofty acres, each a martyr’s tomb;And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloomTwo little idling clouds, that look for longLike roseleaf bodies of two babes in songCorreggio left to flush a convent room.
THE spacious open vale, the vale of doom,
Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strong
The semicirque of water sweeps among
Her lofty acres, each a martyr’s tomb;
And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloom
Two little idling clouds, that look for long
Like roseleaf bodies of two babes in song
Correggio left to flush a convent room.
Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war!In my day, rather, have I seen thee blestWith pastoral roofs to break the darker crestOf apple-woods by many-islèd Loire,And fires that still suffuse the lower west,Blanching the beauty of thine evening star.
Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war!
In my day, rather, have I seen thee blest
With pastoral roofs to break the darker crest
Of apple-woods by many-islèd Loire,
And fires that still suffuse the lower west,
Blanching the beauty of thine evening star.