 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
63
BY THE STREAM
Blow, breeze, and whisper somewhat from the hill,
From cool grey stones and beds of heather brown;
Lay down thy languid schemes, poor heart, lay down
Thy piteous hopes, thy fears of shadowy ill.
From cool grey stones and beds of heather brown;
Lay down thy languid schemes, poor heart, lay down
Thy piteous hopes, thy fears of shadowy ill.
And listen, listen where the water runs
Under the peaty bank, by shingle white,
Washed through and through when winter floods unite,
And delicately dried by summer suns.
Under the peaty bank, by shingle white,
Washed through and through when winter floods unite,
And delicately dried by summer suns.
Let thy free thought flow down with gentle speed
Along the vale, beyond the headland dim,
To drink the sharp scent of the briny weed,
Where on the sandy spit the brooding throng
Of pensive gulls pipe clear their plaintive hymn,
Pipe all at once, like nuns at evensong.
Along the vale, beyond the headland dim,
To drink the sharp scent of the briny weed,
Where on the sandy spit the brooding throng
Of pensive gulls pipe clear their plaintive hymn,
Pipe all at once, like nuns at evensong.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |