I have fond memories of visiting the ruins of Rievaulx Abbey and Fountains Abbey in North Yorkshire. The weather was fine on the occasions that I visited -- the combination of a deep green sward of grass, grey walls, and the blue sky was beautiful. I had (and have) no deep thoughts about the visits -- nothing, for instance, about the remorselessness of time, the vanity of human wishes, the storied ecclesiastical history of England. What was (and is, in memory) remarkable was strolling on wide, soft floors of grass, surrounded by tall grey walls without a roof, doorways without doors, arched empty windows opening onto fields and trees. And, over and around it all, the huge sky.
The Ruined Chapel
From meadows with the sheep so shorn
They, not their lambs, seem newly born,
Through the graveyard I pass,
Where only blue plume-thistle waves
And headstones lie so deep in grass
They follow dead men to their graves,
And as I enter by no door
This chapel where the slow moss crawls
I wonder that so small a floor
Can have the sky for roof, mountains for walls.
Andrew Young, Collected Poems ( 1960). The final two lines are lovely, of course. But "headstones lie so deep in grass/They follow dead men to their graves" is very fine as well.