A Ruin by Philip James Bailey

In a cot-studded, fruity, green deep dale,
There grows the ruin of an abbey old;
And on the hill side, cut in rock, behold
A sainted hermit’s cell; so goes the tale.
What of that ruin? There is nothing left
Save one sky-framing window arch, which climbs
Up to its top point, single stoned, bereft
Of prop or load. And this strange thing sublimes
The scene. For the fair great house, vowed to God,
Is hurled down and unhallowed; and we tread
O’er buried graves which have devoured their dead;
While over all springs up the green-life sod,
And arch, so light and lofty in its span —
So frail and yet so lasting — tis like man.

From: Bailey, Philip James, The Angel World, and Other Poems, 1850, Ticknor, Reed, and Fields: Boston, p. 98.
(https://archive.org/details/angelworldotherp01bail/)

Date: 1850

By: Philip James Bailey (1816-1902)

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: