The Path by Walter de la Mare

Is it an abbey that I see
Hard-by that tapering poplar-tree,
Whereat that path hath end?
‘Tis wondrous still
That empty hill,
Yet calls me, friend.

Smooth is the turf, serene the sky,
The timeworn, crumbling roof awry;
Within that turret slim
Hangs there a bell
Whose faint notes knell?
Do colours dim

Burn in that angled window there,
Grass-green, and crimson, azure rare?
Would, from that narrow door,
One, looking in,
See, gemlike, shine
On walls and floor

Candles whose aureole flames must seem –
So still they burn – to burn in dream?
And do they cry, and say,
‘See, stranger; come!
Here is thy home;
No longer stray!’