The quiet sense of something lost
Silence, beautiful voice.
There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.