The Moat

AROUND this lichened home of hoary peace, Invulnerable in its glassy moat, A breath of ghostly summers seems to float And murmur mid the immemorial trees. The tender slopes, where cattle browse at ease, Swell softly, like a pigeon's emerald throat; And, self-oblivious, Time forgets to note The flight of velvet-footed centuries. The very sunlight hushed within the close, Sleeps indolently by the Yew's slow shade; Still as a relic some old Master made The jewelled peacock's rich enamel glows; And on yon mossy wall that youthful rose Blooms like a rose that never means to fade.