 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
IV
Lynton to Porlock
(Exmoor)
From Lynton when you drive to Porlock,Just take old Tempus by the forelock—
In any case, don't hurry; time and tide—
Of course—I know. But, where the roads divide,
666
Be sure
To shun the via dextra,
And choose the marvellous ride
(One half-hour extra)
That zigzags to a gate
Nigh Porlock town—O, it is great,
That strip of Channel sea,
Backed with the prime of English Arcady!
It is not that the heather rushes
In mad tumultuous flushes
(Trickling's the word I'd use);
But O, the greens and blues
And browns whereon the crimson dwells;
The buds, the bells;
The drop from arch to arch
Of pine and larch;
The scented glooms where soft sun-fainting culvers
Elude the eye,
And fox-gloves, like innumerous-celled revolvers
Shoot honey-tongued quintessence of July!
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |