 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
VII
The Place of Pools
Here, though bluff weeds their mauves and purples flaunt,99
Is something sinister, the soul's at loss
To understand or see as is its wont:
Morosely old, a something, grim and gaunt,
Stalks there invisible, as stalks across
A ruin of legend, with gray hair atoss,
Vague Superstition, making it his haunt.
Above the sombre pools the gypsy Fall
Leans, wild of look. ... Is that a crimson bough,
Staining the water? or a blur of blood?
That, as a mind a memory may recall,
The place reshapes within itself somehow,
Pointing a crime long buried in the flood.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |