Tintern Abbey

MARK this lone seat, by Contemplation plann'd,
This awful relick of monastic day:
Beneath the touch of Time's reluctant hand
Slow mould'ring in the silence of decay.

Nature her shelt'ring moss around has thrown,
As if in pity of the fading pile,
And ev'n to cheer what sorrow calls her own
On ruin's brow has bid her flow'rets smile.

The rifted arch from all connection starts,
The prostrate pillars stretch along the vale,
Yet mid the wreck of corresponding parts,
'One column stands to tell the mournful tale.'