The haunting calls of distant ducks
Pierced the shrouded sky
And soared for the moon beyond the clouds,
Eclipsed by solemn stooping boughs.
These words she made her haunts,
These lines drowned her brilliance
Mid the vastness of Grasmere Lake
Where she cast her fleece dispassionate
In a starless night,
Overlooking the darkened golden grave
Of a poet long dead
Entombed in his lyrical laurels,
Recumbent on ballads soft
Under a smeared plot of grass
Scattered with leaves withered
And a tuft of drooping daffodils.
All in abstract slumber lay
But the moon above,
Below – the unseen mourning ducks,
And the lone stranger beside the grave.