  THE spacious open vale, the vale of doom, Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strong The semicirque of water sweeps among Her lofty acres, each a martyr’s tomb; And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloom Two little idling clouds, that look for long Like roseleaf bodies of two babes in song Correggio left to flush a convent room. Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war! In my day, rather, have I seen thee blest With pastoral roofs to break the darker crest Of apple-woods by many-islÈd Loire, And fires that still suffuse the lower west, Blanching the beauty of thine evening star. Divider
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