Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear To the soft verge where fed with many a rill Low lies the mere. The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. Strange, as we praise the dead man's might and skill, Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer, While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will, Low lies the mere. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CANDLE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD IN HOSPITAL: 21. ROMANCE by WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY TWO AT A FIRESIDE by EDWIN MARKHAM A LONDON FETE by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE A WOMAN'S QUESTION by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER HESPERIDES by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PSALM 77 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE OLD GARDEN by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: TO THE QUEEN OF SERPENTS by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |