W. Green

“ But poetry abides with us for ever
⁠And only takes new fashion from the time;
No change of ours hath strength enough to sever
⁠Our outward labour from its inner chime.
Our Phillisses are dead, we have strewed flowers
⁠Upon their graves, and they exist no more;
Their simple loves are past, their shady bowers
⁠Are merely matters of a poet’s lore.
But we have maidens still with fair young faces
⁠As loveable as were the shepherd maids,
And in these modern times we find the traces
⁠Of those sweet beauties of the forest glades. ”

“ And watching it as it comes sailing shoreward
⁠Until it vanishes beneath the cliff.
Some dreamingly, some earnestly, all listen
⁠Unto the story of the fair Elaine
And of her hopeless love, and bright eyes glisten
⁠At such a tale of sweetness, yet of pain. ”

“ And she is known by this one name—
⁠"The pale-faced Lady of the Grange."
Beneath the avenue of beeches
⁠The nettles sprout amidst the grass,
And many a weed climbs up and reaches
⁠The windows with their clouded glass. ”