Classic Poem

The moonlit ruins rise austere,
Most desolate, most fair.
The old Cistercian rule is here,
Unceasing hush of prayer.

Beneath the river-mists abide
Soft flows of murmurous sound
That Silence hath no heart to chide
From off her magic bound;

But silvered column, arch and wall
In utter quiet gleam,
A radiant fabric mystical,
A masonry of dream.

The grass on yonder capital
Is still as stone arcade,
And not one ivy-leaf of all
May shift her inch of shade.

In at the mullioned windows peep
The dusky hills and lean
In circle close to guard the sleep
Of this enchanted scene.

Where the High Altar used to stand,
The moonlight seems to shape
A kneeling figure, lifted hand,
Monastic cowl and cape.

Hath some White Brother stolen away
From out the heavenly host
Here in his wonted place to pray?
Content thee, wistful ghost!

Thy fane is open to the sky,
But as in vigils gone,
Drowsy responses from the Wye
Attend thine orison.

The ancient calms encompass thee,
And on their hush is shed
A new, divine tranquility,
The beauty of the dead.