 | Poems at Home and Abroad |  |
111
In the Wray Garden
The fells are bronzed, the becks are grey and dry,
The winds are laid and all the woods are still,
But to our garden ground a generous will
Sends down sweet song, nor heeds a fierce July;
And our cool sycamore incessantly
Whispers and with a merry dancer's skill
Moves in its leaves, as if it felt the thrill
Of airy elfin music passing by.
The winds are laid and all the woods are still,
But to our garden ground a generous will
Sends down sweet song, nor heeds a fierce July;
And our cool sycamore incessantly
Whispers and with a merry dancer's skill
Moves in its leaves, as if it felt the thrill
Of airy elfin music passing by.
Here then, with melodies that never fail
Blest are we though the birds have ceased to sing,
Blest are we though the becks have lost their voice;
And if the winds have vanished from the vale,
And July sun its heat and drouth may bring,
In this sequestered garden we rejoice.
Blest are we though the birds have ceased to sing,
Blest are we though the becks have lost their voice;
And if the winds have vanished from the vale,
And July sun its heat and drouth may bring,
In this sequestered garden we rejoice.
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