« AnteriorContinuar »
THE LOST BOWER.
In the pleasant orchard-closes,
Better suits with our degree.
Green the land is where my daily
Dappled very close with shade;
There is one hill I see nearer
vision of the rest;
As it climbeth from the west,
Small the wood is, green with hazels,
Thrills in ieaty tremviemeni,
Not a step the wood advances
See their image on the ground:
and glad with sound.
For you barken on your right hand,
Out of reach and fear of all;
On your left, the sheep are cropping
Separate shadows toward the vale
"All hail !
Far out, kindled by each other,
When they press beneath the eyes
While beyond, above them mounted,
Not unduly, loom a-row-
shine and the enou.*
Yet, in childhood, little prized I
The Malvern Hills of Worcestershire are the scene of Linglande's visions, and thus present the earliest classic ground of English poetry.