 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
105
THE WATER-OUSEL
A shadow by the water's edge,—
A flash across the mossy ledge,
That stems the roaring race.
Dark were his plumes as dim twilight,
The crescent on his throat gleamed white,
The breeze was in his face.
A flash across the mossy ledge,
That stems the roaring race.
Dark were his plumes as dim twilight,
The crescent on his throat gleamed white,
The breeze was in his face.
I follow, but he flies before,
And when I gain the sandy shore
Close, close, methinks, behind:—
His tiny footprints speck the beach,
He fleets to some sequestered reach,
A shadow on the wind.
And when I gain the sandy shore
Close, close, methinks, behind:—
His tiny footprints speck the beach,
He fleets to some sequestered reach,
A shadow on the wind.
Love flies me as that dusky bird,
I too have marked his flight, and heard
The rustle of his wings.
He leads me with divine deceit,
To trace the print of vanished feet,
Not where he nests and sings.
I too have marked his flight, and heard
The rustle of his wings.
He leads me with divine deceit,
To trace the print of vanished feet,
Not where he nests and sings.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |