Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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Lucile | ||
XXVI.
The day had been sullen; but, towards his decline,The sun sent a stream of wild light up the pine.
Darkly denting the red light reveal'd at its back,
The old ruin'd abbey rose roofless and black.
The spring that yet oozed through the moss-paven floor
Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of yore,
The site of that refuge where, back to its God
How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod,
Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest
That now prey'd on his own!
Lucile | ||