THAT grey-green river pouring past, The moorhen and the vole, Though spring was dark above, Will always haunt my soul. Old thorny plum-trees running wild Beside the river donned White bloom -- ah, not too old for love, Though day looked stone beyond. No one yet crossed the muddy plank That bridged the full creek round, Nor on the flood-strewn isle Sought summer's camping-ground; Where, to be sure, a drowned sheep lodged In a black holt of alders, Its poor fleece brown and vile, To shudder young beholders. Surly the day leaned down, its breath Bit; yet through frown and chill This otter's-home, this stream Full-marching to the mill, The claw-like trees, the cryptic gloom Enwombed a joy that drew Through grey-green depths the bream, The swans through air anew. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COCK AND THE BULL by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY TO A CYCLAMEN by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR TO A STEAM ROLLER by MARIANNE MOORE DRAKE'S DRUM by HENRY JOHN NEWBOLT PASSAGE TO INDIA by WALT WHITMAN AGAMEMNON: WELCOME TO AGAMEMNON by AESCHYLUS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 2. ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE, 1740 by MARK AKENSIDE |