Where far and free the foam-bells fly,
And round its roof their white orbs toss,
Yet ’mid whose gleamings we descry
Half-hewn a cross.
Or low-roofed cave above some lake
To whose damp sides no sunbeams stray,
Yet where entangled ripples wake
Dim dreams of day,
In sheaves, in lines of dancing light,
Thin watery streaks of broken green,