By cross-roads of some olden time,
In which grew groves; by gate-stones down—
Grassed ruins of secluded pride:
A strange lone land, long past the prime,
Fit land for Mosby or for crime.
The brook in the dell they pass. One peers
Between the leaves: “Ay, there’s the place—
There, on the oozy ledge—’twas there
We found the body (Blake’s you know);
Such whirlings, gurglings round the face—