Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/199

xvi.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done,

⁠And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,
Half-fall'n across the threshold of the sun,
⁠Never to rise again.

xvii.

There was no motion in the dumb dead air,

⁠Not any song of bird or sound of rill:
Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre
⁠Is not so deadly still

xviii.

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn'd

⁠Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,
And at the root thro' lush green grasses burn'd
⁠The red anemone.

xix.

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew

⁠The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn
On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench'd in dew,
⁠Leading from lawn to lawn.