Annie Rankin Annan

DAY’S farewell breath, scarce ruffling Windermere,

Steals on to die among the reeds that bow

To their slim shadows; and in Rydal now

Yon rosy cloud, unvexed, may see a clear,

Still vision of her loveliness appear.

Calm in the mellow air stands Silver How,

The sunshine lingering on his lifted brow,

Yet, thinly veiled, a star is throbbing near.

Sleep on now, Rydal, for at dawn the grass,

Wind-stirred, will whisper round thy Wordsworth’s Seat,—

Stirred by the wind, but never more, alas!

By thy true lover’s once familiar feet.

Nature, thou virgin mother breathed upon

By God, hast thou no other priestly son?