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Glastonbury ON thy green marge, thou vale of Avalon, Not for that thou art crowned with ancient towers And shafts and clustered pillars many an one, Love I to dream away the sunny hours; Not for that here in charméd slumber lie The holy relics of that British king Who was the flower of knightly chivalry, Do I stand blest past power of uttering;— But for that on thy cowslip-sprinkled sod Alit of old the olive-bearing bird, Meek messenger of purchased peace with God; And the first hymns that Britain ever heard Arose, the low preluding melodies To the sweetest anthem that hath reached the skies. Henry Alford's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1246 |
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