 | The Germ, Issue #2: Thoughts Toward Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art |  |
II. A Quiet Place.
My friend, are not the grasses here as tall
As you would wish to see ? The runnell's fall
Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink
Of shining points which, upon this side, sink
In dark, yet still are there ; this ragged crane
Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain
Terror, forsooth ; the trees, a pulpy stock
Of toadstools huddled round them ; and the flock—
Black wings after black wings—of ancient rook
By rook ; has not the whole scene got a look
As though we were the first whose breath should fan
In two this spider's web, to give a span
Of life more to three flies ? See, there's a stone
Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone
By here, and passed ? or rested on that bank
Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank
For the grass growing here so green and rank ?
As you would wish to see ? The runnell's fall
Over the rise of pebbles, and its blink
Of shining points which, upon this side, sink
In dark, yet still are there ; this ragged crane
Spreading his wings at seeing us with vain
Terror, forsooth ; the trees, a pulpy stock
Of toadstools huddled round them ; and the flock—
Black wings after black wings—of ancient rook
By rook ; has not the whole scene got a look
As though we were the first whose breath should fan
In two this spider's web, to give a span
77
Seems made for us to sit on. Have men gone
By here, and passed ? or rested on that bank
Or on this stone, yet seen no cause to thank
For the grass growing here so green and rank ?
| The Germ, Issue #2: Thoughts Toward Nature in Poetry, Literature, and Art | |