Low, Weed-Climbed Cliffs, O'Er Which At Noon The Sea-Mists Swoon: Wind-Twisted Pines, Through Which The Crow Goes Winging Slow: Dim Fields, The Sower Never Sows, Or Reaps Or Mows: And Near The Sea A Ghostly House Of Stone Where All Is Old And Lone. A Garden, Falling In Decay, Where Statues Gray Peer, Broken, Out Of Tangled Weed And Thorny Seed: Satyr And Nymph, That Once Made Love By Walk And Grove: And, Near A Fountain, Shattered, Green With Mold, A Sundial, Lichen-Old. Like Some Sad Life Bereft, To Musing Left, The House Stands: Love And Youth Both Gone, In Sooth: But Still It Sits And Dreams: And Round It Seems Some Memory Of The Past, Still Young And Fair, Haunting Each Crumbling Stair. And Suddenly One Dimly Sees, Come Through The Trees, A Woman, Like A Wild Moss-Rose: A Man, Who Goes Softly: And By The Dial They Kiss A While: Then Drowsily The Mists Blow Round Them, Wan, And They, Like Ghosts, Are Gone.