Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet 
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain 
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat, 
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain; 
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain, 
Year after year, the days of tender heat, 
And gracious nights whose lips with flowers are sweet, 
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain. 
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell 
The secrets that its heart of water knows, 
The story of a loved and lost repose; 
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell: 
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well, 
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.