University of Virginia Library

THE LITTLE POOL

There is a little pool in fields remote
(Not many seek it, or admire when found),
Thick set with rushes and broad-bladed flags
In all its creeks among the twisted roots
Of gray old willow-trees; and half-creamed o'er
With pulpy weed, and five-leaved water-flowers;
And in its opening centre, deepening down
Into the fathomless inverted heaven,
Small dwarf-oaks, and the crimpy hazel, shake
On breezy days beside the fragrant thorn
That hems it in; and many a little bird—
Still robin, timorous wren, coquetting finch,
Shy blackbird—in among their trembling boughs
Have sung and loved for twenty summers past.
The oxen's lowing is the loudest sound
Heard by this brink, save when, with sudden roar,
The thunder stoops and bellows on the ground
Among the pastures, and its fiery breath
One ghastly instant shows the startled trees
Nodding with terror o'er the blackened wave.
All other sounds are soft and sweet and low;
Light winds pass flute-like all the afternoon
Among the reeds; and wild bees, as they pass
To neighbouring clover, bring their soothing hum
To vibrate in the airs that fan its breast;
The cuckoo, when the days are warm and still,
Comes quietly above, and satisfied
With two plain notes, repeats them o'er and o'er;
While stock-doves, hidden in the dusky firs
Of belting thickets, tremulous reply.
The coot has made her nest within a cove
Guarded by tangled roots and hanging grass,
And he, who in the hot midday will come
Slily across the thistles, there may see
The fleet of four black chicks securely sail
Into that harbour at her bagpipe call—
One plaintive anxious note—herself unseen;
Or, sitting for awhile upon the bank,
May watch the little world of happy life
Beneath and on the surface; down below
The glossy velvet tadpoles wriggle round
The entangled water-weeds, while on the top
Flies, numerous, dart along, or steer across,—
Some in a coat of green and purple mail,
The roving corsairs of their little sea;
Some trembling on their long, tenacious legs,
Swaying like tiny chariots hung with springs,—
Or spiral troops of ever restless gnats
Whirl round and tease the eye to dizziness.
So full and vital is this nameless pool,
And yet so quiet, that its life might be
Made to portray the tranquil life of thought
Where glittering images sport noiselessly,
And fancies, chased by reason, flutter o'er
The depths through which the heaven of the heart
Lies, the calm reflex of the eternal heaven.