 | The Last Crusade and Other Poems |  |
144
[I stand amid the tumbled grass]
I stand amid the tumbled grassHeavy with beads of dew; the morn
Lies folded half-awake; smooth as grey glass
The stream breathes 'neath the willows worn
Its mist of sleep away; and save that where
The sad boughs droop to kiss its chilly cheek
A noiseless, silver-gliding streak
Quivers for ever, one would scarcely know
Which way the spirit of its bosom fair
Doth in its dreaming flow.
| The Last Crusade and Other Poems | |