The spacious open vale, the vale of doom, 
Is full of autumn sunset; blue and strong 
The semicirque of water sweeps among 
Her lofty acres, each a martyr's tomb; 
And slowly, slowly, melt into the gloom 
Two little idling clouds, that look for long 
Like roseleaf bodies of two babes in song 
Correggio left to flush a convent room. 

Dear hill deflowered in the frantic war! 
In my day, rather, have I seen thee blest 
With pastoral roofs to break the darker crest 
Of apple-woods by many-islèd Loire, 
And fires that still suffuse the lower west, 
Blanching the beauty of thine evening star.