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SONNETS                        121
Sits, in deep shelter, our small cottageŚnor Far-off is seen, rose carpeted and hung With clematis, the quarry whence she sprung, O mater pulchra filia pulchrior, Whither in early spring, unharnessed folk, We join the pairing swallows, glad to stay Where, loosened in the hills, remote, unseen, From its tall trees, it breathes a slender smoke To heaven, and in the noon of sultry day Stands, coolly buried, to the neck in green.
As in the hostel by the bridge I sate, Nailed with indifference fondly deemed complete, And (O strange chance, more sorrowful than sweet) The counterfeit of her that was my fate, Dressed in like vesture, graceful and sedate, Went quietly up the vacant village street, The still small sound of her most dainty feet Shook, like a trumpet blast, my soul's estate. Instant revolt ran riot through my brain, And all night long, thereafter, hour by hour, The pageant of dead love before my eyes Went proudly; and old hopes, broke loose again From the restraint of wisely temperate power, With ineffectual ardour sought to rise.