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. ”

“ Until the white light settles on the distance.
⁠And hedgerow shadows lengthen on the lea.
And so it is that idylls have existence,
⁠And so, while hearts are young, ’twill ever be.
For bygone times are still by us reflected,
⁠We are as near to Arcadie as they;
’Tis but the outward sign we have rejected,
⁠The shepherd’s trappings that are put away.
And, in our hearts, for all time there abideth
⁠The spirit that in old times clothed the downs,
The woods, and valleys where the river glideth,
⁠With simple loves of shepherd-maids and clowns. ”