 | The Autumn Garden |  |
28
Dunster Mill
Here would I live, and watch the light
Ebb down my level lawns at night,
While Avill with his whispering stream
Should mould the music of my dream;
My poplars old should flutter high
Their fairy hands against the sky,
And all the hollow twilight stir
With laughter of the woodpecker.
The hunt should, each a scarlet spark,
Press homeward down the dark-green park,
Yet scarcely wind the horn, or be
Disturbers of my privacy;
Nor from the hollyhocks should scare
One mimic huntsman of the air.
All sounds and scents, all shadowy lights,
That life revolves in careful rites,
Should, on this rustic altar piled,
Beguile me as they once beguiled.
The silvery otter then might spy
My limbs reclined, nor think to fly;
The ousel preen her dazzling breast,
And lead me to her sunken nest;
The wild hind pierce my noontide lair,
Nor start to find a harbourer there;
The heavy-lidded owlet hoot
Her welcome from the pear-tree shoot:
All Nature graciously contend
To claim me for a harmless friend.
Ebb down my level lawns at night,
While Avill with his whispering stream
Should mould the music of my dream;
My poplars old should flutter high
Their fairy hands against the sky,
And all the hollow twilight stir
With laughter of the woodpecker.
The hunt should, each a scarlet spark,
Press homeward down the dark-green park,
Yet scarcely wind the horn, or be
Disturbers of my privacy;
Nor from the hollyhocks should scare
One mimic huntsman of the air.
All sounds and scents, all shadowy lights,
That life revolves in careful rites,
Should, on this rustic altar piled,
Beguile me as they once beguiled.
The silvery otter then might spy
My limbs reclined, nor think to fly;
The ousel preen her dazzling breast,
And lead me to her sunken nest;
29
Nor start to find a harbourer there;
The heavy-lidded owlet hoot
Her welcome from the pear-tree shoot:
All Nature graciously contend
To claim me for a harmless friend.
Ah! dream enwrapped in wreathèd mist,
Come! fold me in thine amethyst;
Divide from all the jarring years
This heart that hopes and craves and fears;
Still let me live, still take from thee
Thy gifts of stream and poplar-tree.
Come! fold me in thine amethyst;
Divide from all the jarring years
This heart that hopes and craves and fears;
Still let me live, still take from thee
Thy gifts of stream and poplar-tree.
| The Autumn Garden | |