There is a bay, all still and lone,
And in the shade one broad grey stone
Where at the evening hour
The sun upon the water weaves
Motions of light among the leaves
Of a low-hanging bower:
And one old sycamore that dips
Into the stream its dark-green tips,
And drinks all day and night:
And opposite, the mountain high
Doth intercept the deep blue sky
And shuts it out from sight.

Last year it was my haunted seat,
And every evening did I meet
A grave and solemn Wren:
He sate and never spoke a word;
A holy and religious bird
He seemed unto me then.
I thought, perchance, that sin and strife
Might in a winged creature's life
Be somehow strangely blent:
So hermit-like he lived apart,
And might be in his little heart
A woodland penitent!
Deceitful thing! into the brook,
Hour after hour, a stedfast look
From off his perch was sent;
And yet I thought his eyes too bright,
Too happy for an anchorite
On lonely penance bent.

Ah! yes—for long his nest hath been
Behind yon alder's leafy screen
By Rothay's chiming waters:
Two rapid years are run, and now
This monk hath peopled every bough
With little sons and daughters.
I will not blame thee, Friar Wren,
Because among stout-hearted men
Some truant monks there be;
And, if you could their names collect,
I rather more than half suspect
That I should not be free.
Erewhile I dreamed of cloistered cells,
Of gloomy courts and matin bells,
And painted windows rare;
But common life's less real gleams
Shone warm on my monastic dreams,
And melted them to air.

My captive heart is altered now;
And, had I but one little bough
Of thy green alder-tree,
I would not live too long alone,
Or languish there for want of one
To share the nest with me!