 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
62
BY THE CAVE
Without 'twas life and light; the large air rolled
Down from the hill; the merry heather-bird
Strutted and drummed, or through the hillocks whirred,
Scattering the dew, and bade his mates be bold.
Down from the hill; the merry heather-bird
Strutted and drummed, or through the hillocks whirred,
Scattering the dew, and bade his mates be bold.
Within, severe and sad, the cold cave wept;
The filmy tear-drop splashed, or quivering stood
Full-orbed, as in the ancient solitude
Pendant to base minutely nearer crept.
The filmy tear-drop splashed, or quivering stood
Full-orbed, as in the ancient solitude
Pendant to base minutely nearer crept.
Though still 'tis mine to linger in the sun,
To drink the pure keen scent of heathery miles,
Catching the busy minutes as they run,
Yet I remember that my joys are brief,
That in the sunless dark eternal grief
Its monumental record slowly piles.
To drink the pure keen scent of heathery miles,
Catching the busy minutes as they run,
Yet I remember that my joys are brief,
That in the sunless dark eternal grief
Its monumental record slowly piles.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |