 | The Last Crusade and Other Poems |  |
133
A WELSH HOMESTEAD.
Nestled in loveliness, where four deep glens
Blend their low voices in one harmony,
One ever-restful, ever-restless song,
Lulling the soul with vague monotony,
Stirring it with a thousand undernotes
That swell and sink and nevermore return.
Blend their low voices in one harmony,
One ever-restful, ever-restless song,
Lulling the soul with vague monotony,
Stirring it with a thousand undernotes
That swell and sink and nevermore return.
Muffled in woods, whose Winter nakedness
Is fair as their Spring raiment, where the foot
Falls soft as silence, and the meanest crag
Is rich with clinging beauty, while the life
Of butterfly and floweret lies asleep.
Is fair as their Spring raiment, where the foot
Falls soft as silence, and the meanest crag
Is rich with clinging beauty, while the life
Of butterfly and floweret lies asleep.
A warm home, bosomed in the inmost folds
Of Nature's robe; an islet in the main
Of cold gray rock, loud torrent, sodden moor,
And lonely lakes, deep as the sullen steeps
That wall them round, dark as the eyes of Fate.
Of Nature's robe; an islet in the main
Of cold gray rock, loud torrent, sodden moor,
And lonely lakes, deep as the sullen steeps
That wall them round, dark as the eyes of Fate.
A treasure-house, where forms most delicate
Find shelter 'neath the shadow of the strong,
Where the film-fern's unceasing thirst is laved
With spray-dew of resistless waterfalls,
And at the buried foot of ice-worn rocks
The violet hides her meek face in the moss.
Find shelter 'neath the shadow of the strong,
Where the film-fern's unceasing thirst is laved
With spray-dew of resistless waterfalls,
And at the buried foot of ice-worn rocks
The violet hides her meek face in the moss.
| The Last Crusade and Other Poems | |