The Moat
AROUND this lichened home of hoary peace,
Invulnerable in its glassy moat,
A breath of ghostly summers seems to float
And murmur mid the immemorial trees.
The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease,
Swell softly, like a pigeon’s emerald throat;
And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note
The flight of velvet-footed centuries.
The very sunlight hushed within the close,
Sleeps indolently by the Yew’s slow shade;
Still as a relic some old Master made
The jewelled peacock’s rich enamel glows;
And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose
Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.
