I meditate upon a swallow‘s flight，

    Upon an aged woman and her house，

    A sycamore and lime tree lost in night

    Although that western cloud is luminous，

    Great works constructed there in nature‘s spite

    For scholars and for poets after us，

    Thoughts long knitted into a single thought，

    A dance-like glory that those walls begot.

    There Hyde before he had beaten into prose

    That noble blade the Muses buckled on，

    There one that ruffled in a manly pose

    For all his timid heart， there that slow man，

    That meditative man， John Synge， and those

    Impetuous men， Shaw Taylor and Hugh Lane

    Found pride established in humility，

    A scene well set and excellent company.

    They came like swallows and like swallows went，

    And yet a woman‘s powerful character

    Could keep a swallow to its first intent；

    And half a dozen in formation there，

    That seemed to whirl upon a compass-point，

    Found certainty upon the dreaming air，

    The intellectual sweetness of those lines

    That cut through time or cross it withershins.

    Here， traveller， scholar， poet， take your stand

    When all those rooms and passages are gone，

    When nettles wave upon a shapeless mound

    And saplings root among the broken stone，

    And dedicate—eyes bent upon the ground，

    Back turned upon the brightness of the sun

    And all the sensuality of the shade—

    A moment‘s memory to that laurelled head.