I paint thee oft, scarce consciously, a scene,
Silent, forsaken, dim, shadow’d by what hath been.
A REMEMBRANCE OF GRASMERE.[434]
O vale and lake, within your mountain-urn
Smiling so tranquilly, and set so deep!
Oft doth your dreamy loveliness return,
Colouring the tender shadows of my sleep
With light Elysian; for the hues that steep
Your shores in melting lustre, seem to float
On golden clouds from spirit-lands remote,