XI.
Reading edition
Mourn gently, tranquil marshes, mourn with me! Mourn, if acceptance so serene can mourn! Grieve, marshes, though your noonday melody Of color thrill through sorrow like a horn Blown far in Elfland! Mourn, free-wandering dunes! For he has left you of his voice forlorn, Who sang your slopes full of an hundred Junes.