Page:A lover's tale (Tennyson, 1879).djvu/13

Rh To pass my hand across my brows, and muse On those dear hills, that never more will meet The sight that throbs and aches beneath my touch, As tho' there beat a heart in either eye; For when the outer lights are darkened thus, The memory's vision hath a keener edge. It grows upon me now — the semicircle Of dark-blue waters and the narrow fringe Of curving beach — its wreaths of dripping green— Its pale pink shells — the summerhouse aloft That open'd on the pines with doors of glass, A mountain nest — the pleasure-boat that rock'd. Light-green with its own shadow, keel to keel, Upon the dappled dimplings of the wave, That blanch'd upon its side.