The Valley of Unrest

Once it smiled a silent dellWhere the people did not dwell;They had gone unto the wars,Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,Nightly, from their azure towers,To keep watch above the flowers,In the midst of which all dayThe red sunlight lazily lay.Now each visitor shall confessThe sad valley’s restlessness.Nothing there is motionless —Nothing save the airs that broodOver the magic solitude.Ah, by no wind are stirred those treesThat palpitate like the chill seasAround the misty Hebrides!Ah, by no wind those clouds are drivenThat rustle through the unquiet HeavenUneasily, from morn till even,Over the violets there that lieIn myriad types of the human eye —Over the lilies there that waveAnd weep above a nameless grave!They wave: — from out their fragrant topsEternal dews come down in drops.They weep: — from off their delicate stemsPerennial tears descend in gems.

1831                       1845

l. 16, Hebrides: a group of islands off the western coast of Scotland.