Poem by Walter Savage Landor

Clifton

CLIFTON, in vain thy varied scenes invite,—
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height;
The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant churches’ mellow chime;
As o’er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I ’ve thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar;
The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o’er land and sea.
Then join my friends, and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve.

1. Tell Me Not Things Past All Belief
2. The Poet Who Sleeps
3. Idle Words
4. She I Love
5. Child of a Day

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