Low lies the mere beneath the moorside, still <br />And glad of silence: down the wood sweeps clear <br />To the utmost verge where fed with many a rill <br /> Low lies the mere. <br /> <br />The wind speaks only summer: eye nor ear <br />Sees aught at all of dark, hears aught of shrill, <br />From sound or shadow felt or fancied here. <br /> <br />Strange, as we praise the dead man's might and skill, <br />Strange that harsh thoughts should make such heavy cheer, <br />While, clothed with peace by heaven's most gentle will, <br /> Low lies the mere.<br /><br />Algernon Charles Swinburne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-landscape-by-courbet/
