Inaccessibility in the Battlefield
Forgotten streams, yet wishful to be known, With humble moanIn rushy channels working, called us on; These might have with as good result Remained occult And gray and dumb; For where they curled and called we could not come.
Some tottering hut they called the Moated Grange Bade our Steps rangeAnd cramped routine for rural loves exchange; That thatchéd spectre might as well With some fierce shell Have sunk to earth; A jealous god declined our going forth.
And that delightful maybush, that above The dead mill-droveWith rose-lipped courtesy and whispering love Enchanted, was not ours to touch. Between, this grutch, This staring curse Made a blind wall, and kept our lips averse.
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