Page:Flora (Heinemann 1919).djvu/30

 THE PATH

Is it an abbey that I see

Hard-by that tapering poplar-tree,

Whereat that path hath end?

’Tis wondrous still

That empty hill,

Yet calls me, friend.

Smooth is the turf, serene the sky,

The timeworn, crumbling roof awry;

Within that turret slim

Hangs there a bell

Whose faint notes knell?

Do colours dim

Burn in that angled window there,

Grass-green, and crimson, azure rare?

Would, from that narrow door,

One, looking in,

See, gemlike, shine

On walls and floor

Candles whose aureole flames must seem

So still they burn—to burn in dream?

And do they cry, and say,

“See, stranger; come!

Here is thy home;

No longer stray!”

12