 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
110
THE ARCH
Just where the street of the village ends,
Over the road an oak-tree tall,
Curving in more than a crescent, bends
With an arch like the gate of a Moorish wall.
Over the road an oak-tree tall,
Curving in more than a crescent, bends
With an arch like the gate of a Moorish wall.
Over across the river there,
Looking under the arch, one sees
The sunshine slant through the distant air,
And burn on the cliff and the tufted trees.
Looking under the arch, one sees
The sunshine slant through the distant air,
And burn on the cliff and the tufted trees.
Each day, hurrying through the town,
I stop an instant, early or late,
As I cross the street, and glancing down
I catch a glimpse through the Moorish gate.
I stop an instant, early or late,
As I cross the street, and glancing down
I catch a glimpse through the Moorish gate.
Only a moment there I stand,
But I look through that loop in the dusty air,
Into a far-off fairyland,
Where all seems calm, and kind, and fair.
But I look through that loop in the dusty air,
Into a far-off fairyland,
Where all seems calm, and kind, and fair.
So sometimes at the end of a thought,
Where with a vexing doubt we 've striven,
A sudden, sunny glimpse is caught
Of an open arch, and a peaceful heaven.
Where with a vexing doubt we 've striven,
A sudden, sunny glimpse is caught
Of an open arch, and a peaceful heaven.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |