Here are the brows of Quantock, purple–clad
With lavish heath–bloom: there, the banks of Tone.
Where is that woman, love–forlorn and sad,
Piping her flute of hemlock all alone?
I hear the Quantock woodman whistling home,–
The sunset flush is over Dunkery:–
I fear me much that she hath ceased to roam
Up the steep path, and lie beneath the tree.
I always fancied I should hear in sooth
That music,–but it sounds not!–wayward tears
Are filling in mine eyes for thee, poor Ruth;–
I had forgotten all the lapse of years
Since thy deep griefs were hallowed by the pen
Of that most pure of poesy–gifted men.
(Henry Alford)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Sadness Poems, Nature Poems, Home Poems, Woman Poems, Grief PoemsBased on Keywords: purple-clad, quantock, heath-bloom, music-but