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 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
271
AT THE GRANGE
The sheltering pines are black and still,
No breeze to stir the listening ferns;
Beyond the shoulder of the hill
The sunset burns.
No breeze to stir the listening ferns;
Beyond the shoulder of the hill
The sunset burns.
The lamp within the casement sheds
Through glimmering leaves a warmer glow;
Soft moths across the garden-beds
Flit large and low.
Through glimmering leaves a warmer glow;
Soft moths across the garden-beds
Flit large and low.
The weary horse plods clinking home,
Plods softly down the sandy lane,
The swift bat flickers in the gloom
Across the pane.
Plods softly down the sandy lane,
The swift bat flickers in the gloom
Across the pane.
Faint through the silent meadows heard,
Murmur the hazel-hidden streams,
Beside dark copses, where the bird
Is wrapt in dreams.
Murmur the hazel-hidden streams,
Beside dark copses, where the bird
Is wrapt in dreams.
Rich peace, cool silence! Who could think
That any heart were restless so?
That any shivering soul could sink
In baseless woe?
That any heart were restless so?
That any shivering soul could sink
In baseless woe?
272
Restless—to find the world so sweet,
Yet craving momently to hear
One foot among all other feet
That draws not near.
Yet craving momently to hear
One foot among all other feet
That draws not near.
Fearful—because the shadow stays
To whelm the half-completed task,
Withholding through the golden days,
The boon I ask.
To whelm the half-completed task,
Withholding through the golden days,
The boon I ask.
Nay, nay! be master of thy fate;
Knit close the bonds that shall endure;
And if thou canst not yet be great,
Be calm, be pure!
Knit close the bonds that shall endure;
And if thou canst not yet be great,
Be calm, be pure!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |