P. J. Bailey (1816-1902)

A Ruin

In a cot-studded, fruity, green deep dale,

There grows the ruin of an abbey old;

And on the hillside, cut in rock, behold

A sainted hermit's cell; so goes the tale.

What of that ruin? There is nothing left

Save one sky-framing window arch, which climbs

Up to its top point, single-stoned, bereft

Of prop or load. And this strange thing sublimes

The scene. For the fair great house, vowed to God,

Is hurled down and unhallowed; and we tread

Over buried graves which have devoured their dead;

While over all springs up the green-lifed sod,

And arch, so light and ]ofty in its span--

So frail, and yet so lasting--'tis like man.