A MEDLEY.
163
The long line of the approaching rookery swerve
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout
More joyful than the city-roar that hails
Premier or king! Why don't these acred Sirs
Throw up their parks some dozen times a year
And let the people breathe? So thrice they cried,
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.
From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer
From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout
More joyful than the city-roar that hails
Premier or king! Why don't these acred Sirs
Throw up their parks some dozen times a year
And let the people breathe? So thrice they cried,
I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.
But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on,
So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we sat
Saying little, rapt in nameless reverie,
Perchance upon the future man: the walls
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,
And gradually the powers of the night,
That range above the region of the wind,
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.
So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we sat
Saying little, rapt in nameless reverie,
Perchance upon the future man: the walls
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,
And gradually the powers of the night,
That range above the region of the wind,
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.
