 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
97
IV
The Old Saw-Mill
Brown as a cairngorm, rimmed with golden woods,The clear brook glasses in an oval pond,
Pouring confusion thence where great blooms blond
The glimmering marge in weedy multitudes.
Here where its ruin o'er the tumult broods,
Moss-sunk and crumbling in a stony bond,
No more its toiling wheels and saw respond
To the swift water's urge whose sound intrudes.
Here in the night, among the rocks and slime,
So dark the stream, so lost in utter gloom,
One could imagine that this skeleton form
Still kept a memory of some perished crime,
And saw forever down its roaring flume
A wild face whirling in the rushing storm.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |