These are the damned circles Dante trod,
Terrible in hopelessness,
But even skulls have their humour,
Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
Endless lanes sunken in the clay,
Bays, and traverses, fringed with wasted herbage,
Seed-pods of blue scabious, and some lingering blooms;
And the sky, seen as from a well,
A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches;
Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough;
Hush ye! Hush ye! My babe is sleeping.
Hush, ye winds, that are full of sorrow!
Hush, ye rains, from your weary weeping!