 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
51
Heather on Lonscale
Aug. 18th.
God, for the gift of the thunder and fire I fear Thee,
—Gift of the thunder and fire that gave us our fells;
But for the gift of this wonder my love comes anear Thee,
Gift of the wonder of these multitudinous bells.
—Gift of the thunder and fire that gave us our fells;
But for the gift of this wonder my love comes anear Thee,
Gift of the wonder of these multitudinous bells.
Oh! the sweet scent and the dust of the honey around me—
Oh! the sweet sound of the brindled and golden-thighed bees,
Oh! the content which on Lonscale's round shoulder has found me.
Rest that has found me where body and soul are at ease.
Oh! the sweet sound of the brindled and golden-thighed bees,
Oh! the content which on Lonscale's round shoulder has found me.
Rest that has found me where body and soul are at ease.
52
Blue is the sky, a pavilion with clouds all afeather,
Green is the plain where the aftermath shimmers and shines,
But purple the million on million of blooms where the heather
Sweeps rose-ingrain from the blue to the belt of the pines.
Green is the plain where the aftermath shimmers and shines,
But purple the million on million of blooms where the heather
Sweeps rose-ingrain from the blue to the belt of the pines.
Here then on Lonscale I lie, and its garment in splendour
Grows as the sun sinks, and bees their soft music prolong,
Weariless workers: and I, how can I, any gratitude render,
Save but by rising from rest with new heart for such labour and song.
Grows as the sun sinks, and bees their soft music prolong,
Weariless workers: and I, how can I, any gratitude render,
Save but by rising from rest with new heart for such labour and song.
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