Which Arnold loved, where Wordsworth died.
That flower of heaven, eve’s tender star,
Trembled with light above Nab Scar;
And from his towering throne aloft
Fairfield poured purple shadows soft.
The tapers twinkled through the trees
From Rydal’s bower-bound cottages,
And gentle was the river’s flow,
Like love’s own quivering whisper low.
One held my arm will walk no more