 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
108
DRIFTING
I sailed with a witch in a car of foam,
Over the sleeping lake:
And she said: Sail on to my haunted home!
Then did I answer make:—
Not so, I cried, I will ride and roam,
I will sail all day in our bell of foam,
But I may not go to your haunted home,
And your hand I will not take.
Over the sleeping lake:
And she said: Sail on to my haunted home!
Then did I answer make:—
Not so, I cried, I will ride and roam,
I will sail all day in our bell of foam,
But I may not go to your haunted home,
And your hand I will not take.
She smiled a smile like an icy lake
When the warm winds over it quiver,
Yea, wise, she said, is the choice you make,
We will sail, sail on for ever;
Over the sleeping forest go,
And scale the unvisited heights of snow,
And ride unharmed where the whirlwinds blow,
And skim o'er the deadly river.
When the warm winds over it quiver,
Yea, wise, she said, is the choice you make,
We will sail, sail on for ever;
Over the sleeping forest go,
And scale the unvisited heights of snow,
And ride unharmed where the whirlwinds blow,
And skim o'er the deadly river.
She spoke of marvellous things with me,
On her knee I pillowed my head:
We heard the surge of the tumbling sea
As westward we fared and fled:—
And my heart was steeped in her fantasy,
Till once as we floated merrily,
Oh, here is your hand in mine, said she,
And here is my home, she said.
On her knee I pillowed my head:
We heard the surge of the tumbling sea
As westward we fared and fled:—
109
Till once as we floated merrily,
Oh, here is your hand in mine, said she,
And here is my home, she said.
The idle music died in my brain,
And left me alone, awake,
And I was aware of a stony plain,
And a dizzy, haunting ache;
I sigh all day, but I sigh in vain
For a sound of the murmuring voice again,
For a draught of healing to ease my pain,
And a hand for mine to take!
And left me alone, awake,
And I was aware of a stony plain,
And a dizzy, haunting ache;
I sigh all day, but I sigh in vain
For a sound of the murmuring voice again,
For a draught of healing to ease my pain,
And a hand for mine to take!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |