 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
394
CROWLAND ABBEY
In sooth it seems right awful & sublimeTo gaze by moonlight on the shattered pile
Of this old abbey struggling still with time
The grey owl hooting from its rents the while
& tottering stones as wakened by the sound
Crumbling from arch & battlement around—
Urging dread echoes from the gloomy aisle
To sink more silent still—The very ground
In desolations garment doth appear—
The lapse of age & mystery profound—
We gaze on wrecks of ornamented stones
On tombs whose sculptures half erased appear
& rank weeds battening over human bones
Till even ones very shadow seems to feel a fear
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |