Green fields and inland meadows faded out
Of mind, or with sea-images were linked;
And yet she had her childish thoughts about
The country she had left--though indistinct
And faint as mist the mountain-head that shrouds,
Or dim through distance as Magellan's clouds.
And when to frame a forest scene she tried,
The ever-present sea would yet intrude,
And all her towns were by the water's side,
It murmured in all moorland solitude,
Where rocks and the ribbed sand would intervene,
And waves would edge her fancied village green;
Because her heart was like an ocean shell,
That holds (men say) a message from the deep,
And yet the land was strong, she knew its spell,
And harbor lights could draw her in her sleep;
And minster chimes from pierced towers that swim,
Were the land-angels making God a hymn.
So she grew on, the idol of one heart,
And the delight of many--and her face,
Thus dwelling chiefly from her sex apart,
Was touched with a most deep and tender grace--
A look that never aught but nature gave,
Artless, yet thoughtful; innocent, yet grave.
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