A mystery

One from a photo album and I can't remember where it was taken.  

At fall of evening while it seems that never 
Has the sun lighted it or warmed it, while
Cross breezes cut the surface to a file,
This heart, some fraction of me, happily
Floats through the window even now to a tree
Down in the misting, dim-lit, quiet vale,
Not like a pewit that returns to wail 
For something lost, but like a dove
That slants unswerving to its home and love.
There I find my rest,  and through the dusk air
Flies what yet lives in me. Beauty is there.

Edward Thomas