Brought from the mart at Winchester,

And silver flax from Burgundy.

Who is weaving there to-night?

Only the moon, whose shuttle white

Makes silver warp on dyke and pond;

Her hands fling veils of lily-woof

On riven spire and open roof

And on the haggard marsh beyond.

No happy ghosts or fairies haunt

The ancient city, huddling gaunt,