Fair is her cottage in its place,
Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides.
It sees itself from thatch to base
Dream in the sliding tides.

And fairer she, but ah, how soon to die!
Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease.
Her peaceful being slowly passes by
        To some more perfect peace. 


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Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson library , or . . . Read the next poem; Riflemen Form!

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