Sonnet

every outflash, every ruder sally Of thought and speech; speak low, and give up wholly Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy; This is the place. Through yonder poplar alley, Below, the blue-green river windeth slowly; But in the middle of the sombre valley, The crispèd waters whisper musically, And all the haunted place is dark and holy. The nightingale, with long and low preamble, Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches The summer midges wove their wanton gambol, And all the white stemmed pinewood slept above— When in this valley first I told my love.