Time puzzles judgment; and, when none explain,
You may assume the airs of high disdain.
But, for my Brother—night and morn were you 220
Together found, th’ inseparable two,
Far from the haunts of vulgar prying men—
In the old abbey—in the lonely glen—
In the beech-wood—within the quarry made
By hands long dead—within the silent glade,
Where the moon gleams upon the spring that flows
By the grey willows as they stand in rows—