Sonnet Xvi. Recollection Of Wordsworth’s Poem by Henry Alford

Here are the brows of Quantock, purple--clad
With lavish heath--bloom: there, the banks of Tone.
Where is that woman, love--forlorn and sad,
Piping her flute of hemlock all alone?
I hear the Quantock woodman whistling home,--
The sunset flush is over Dunkery:--
I fear me much that she hath ceased to roam
Up the steep path, and lie beneath the tree.
I always fancied I should hear in sooth
That music,--but it sounds not!--wayward tears
Are filling in mine eyes for thee, poor Ruth;--
I had forgotten all the lapse of years
Since thy deep griefs were hallowed by the pen
Of that most pure of poesy--gifted men.