The Moat

written by


« Reload image

AROUND this lichened home of hoary peace,
  Invulnerable in its glassy moat,
  A breath of ghostly summers seems to float
And murmur mid the immemorial trees.
The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease,
  Swell softly, like a pigeon's emerald throat;
  And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note
The flight of velvet-footed centuries.

The very sunlight hushed within the close,
  Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade;
  Still as a relic some old Master made
The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows;
And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose
  Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.

© Mathilde Blind