Low sloping over sea and field
The setting ray had past,
On roofs and curls of quiet smoke
The glory-flush was cast.
Clustered upon the western side
Of Avalon's green hill,
Her ancient homes and fretted towers
Were lying, bright and still;
XXX.
And lower, in the valley-field,
Hid from the parting day,
A brotherhood of columns old,
A ruin rough and grey;
And over all, Saint Michael's Tor
Spired up into the sky--
Most like to Tabor's holy mount
Of vision blest and high.
XXXI.
The vision changeth not--no cloud
Comes down the Mendip side;
The moors spread out beneath my feet
Their free expanse and wide;
On glittering cots and ancient towers,
That rise among the dells,
On mountain and on bending stream
The light of evening dwells.
XXXII.
I may not write--I cannot say
What change shall next betide;
Whether that group of columns grey
Untroubled shall abide;
Or whether that pile in Avalon's isle
Some pious hand shall raise,
And the vaulted arches ring once more
With pealing chants of praise.
XXXIII
Speed on, speed on: let England's sons
For England's glories rise;
And England's towers that lowly lie
Lift upward to the skies:
Till there go up from England's heart,
In peace and purity,
From temple-aisle and cottage-hearth,
Tibi gloria Domine. http://sacred-texts.com/neu/arthur/art009.htm