 | Valete |  |
17
Farringford.
1883.
This is the Poet's home, from east to west
A silver amulet, the Solent shines,
To guard him, where he sees in stately lines
The white-winged vessels pass, for toil or rest.
No ruder sound has his fine ear distrest
Than rippling ilex, and the sigh of pines
When south winds sweep with clamour up the chines,
And waves leap high on milk-white Watcomb's breast.
A silver amulet, the Solent shines,
To guard him, where he sees in stately lines
The white-winged vessels pass, for toil or rest.
No ruder sound has his fine ear distrest
Than rippling ilex, and the sigh of pines
When south winds sweep with clamour up the chines,
And waves leap high on milk-white Watcomb's breast.
But if at all he leave his song's retreat,
The cypress bowers, the labyrinthine maze,
To climb the hushed, companionable Down,
And seaward at the Beacon's height to gaze,
He hears the ocean like his great heart beat,
And to its rhythmic cadence times his own.
The cypress bowers, the labyrinthine maze,
To climb the hushed, companionable Down,
And seaward at the Beacon's height to gaze,
He hears the ocean like his great heart beat,
And to its rhythmic cadence times his own.
| Valete | |