 | A book of Bristol sonnets |  |
120
GOBLIN COMBE.
If there are hearts that have a grief to tell,Or lips that yearn some secret to unfold,
Go, bid them leave this melancholy Wold,
And wander down thy dimly-lighted Dell,
What time the acorn quits it's dainty shell,
And elders fruit, and brackens turn to gold;
There shall they learn, as learned the men of old,
The strange enchantment of the Goblin spell!
For not a wood-note jars the voice of care;
The winds are hushed at every listening leaf;
The dumb rocks suit our mood, cold, grey, and bare;
And the black yews compassionate our grief;
And entering in that lone bough-archèd tomb,
Our souls are strong to pass the Goblin Combe!
| A book of Bristol sonnets | |