BOURNEMOUTH TO POOLE
Quite given o’er to shameful destiniesYet may I muse what graces once were thineWhose little brooks descend the tawny chineSo silver-silent on their gold degrees;Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seasHave drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shineUnder the coif of heaven that doth confineThy tender headlands and their tress of trees.Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand,Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown,So fallen;—doth it much import what handCast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown,Or, on this lovely and reluctant land,Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?
Quite given o’er to shameful destiniesYet may I muse what graces once were thineWhose little brooks descend the tawny chineSo silver-silent on their gold degrees;Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seasHave drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shineUnder the coif of heaven that doth confineThy tender headlands and their tress of trees.Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand,Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown,So fallen;—doth it much import what handCast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown,Or, on this lovely and reluctant land,Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?
Quite given o’er to shameful destiniesYet may I muse what graces once were thineWhose little brooks descend the tawny chineSo silver-silent on their gold degrees;Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seasHave drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shineUnder the coif of heaven that doth confineThy tender headlands and their tress of trees.Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand,Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown,So fallen;—doth it much import what handCast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown,Or, on this lovely and reluctant land,Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?