 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
283
TIDINGS
Blow, wind, blow; and rivulet flow
Down by the moor to the bridge I know.
Down by the moor to the bridge I know.
Stream, be wise: ere the ripple rise,
Catch the image of pure grey eyes.
Catch the image of pure grey eyes.
She who stands in the meadow-lands,
Gathers her cowslips with tender hands.
Gathers her cowslips with tender hands.
Bid her throw in the pool below
One of her blossoms: let it go!
One of her blossoms: let it go!
Let it ride on the brimming tide,
Slip to the river, and wander wide.
Slip to the river, and wander wide.
Flower, swim down to the smoky town:
Whisper a message before you drown;
Whisper a message before you drown;
I shall go when the warm winds blow.
Wend my way to the bridge I know.
Wend my way to the bridge I know.
Under the tree, by the grassy lea,
Has she a tender thought of me?
Has she a tender thought of me?
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |