Robbins Library Digital Projects Announcement: We are currently working on a large-scale migration of the Robbins Library Digital Projects to a new platform. This migration affects The Camelot Project, The Robin Hood Project, The Crusades Project, The Cinderella Bibliography, and Visualizing Chaucer.
While these resources will remain accessible during the course of migration, they will be static, with reduced functionality. They will not be updated during this time. We anticipate the migration project to be complete by Summer 2025.
If you have any questions or concerns, please contact us directly at robbins@ur.rochester.edu. We appreciate your understanding and patience.
While these resources will remain accessible during the course of migration, they will be static, with reduced functionality. They will not be updated during this time. We anticipate the migration project to be complete by Summer 2025.
If you have any questions or concerns, please contact us directly at robbins@ur.rochester.edu. We appreciate your understanding and patience.
Broceliande
Broceliande! in the perilous beauty of silence and
menacing shade,
Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of
horizons untravelled, unscanned.
Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are
the moon-marshalled hosts that invade
Broceliande.
Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight
disband,
Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted
in solemn parade,
Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the
valleys of Fairyland—
Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the
horn of a huntsman strayed,
Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage
fitfully fanned,
Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle,
disturbed and affrayed:
Broceliande—
Broceliande—
Broceliande. . . .
menacing shade,
Thou art set on the shores of the sea down the haze of
horizons untravelled, unscanned.
Untroubled, untouched with the woes of this world are
the moon-marshalled hosts that invade
Broceliande.
Only at dusk, when lavender clouds in the orient twilight
disband,
Vanishing where all the blue afternoon they have drifted
in solemn parade,
Sometimes a whisper comes down on the wind from the
valleys of Fairyland—
Sometimes an echo most mournful and faint like the
horn of a huntsman strayed,
Faint and forlorn, half drowned in the murmur of foliage
fitfully fanned,
Breathes in a burden of nameless regret till I startle,
disturbed and affrayed:
Broceliande—
Broceliande—
Broceliande. . . .
share this page
