I'M here at Clifton, grinding at the mill My feet for thrice nine barren years have trod; But there are rocks and waves at Scarlett still, And gorse runs riot in Glen Chass -- thank God! Alert, I seek exactitude of rule, I step, and square my shoulders with the squad; But there are blaeberries on old Barrule, And Langness has its heather still -- thank God! There is no silence here: the truculent quack Insists with acrid shriek my ears to prod, And, if I stop them, fumes; but there's no lack Of silence still on Carraghyn -- thank God! Pragmatic fibs surround my soul, and bate it With measured phrase, that asks the assenting nod; I rise, and say the bitter thing, and hate it -- But Wordsworth's castle's still at Peel -- thank God! O broken life! O wretched bits of being, Unrhythmic, patched, the even and the odd! But Bradda still has lichens worth the seeing, And thunder in her caves -- thank God! thank God! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SUFFERED UNDER PONTIUS PILATE, WAS CRUCIFIED, DEAD, AND BURIED by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THE GOOD GREAT MAN by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCE: 12. AT THE DRAPER'S by THOMAS HARDY SONG FOR A LITTLE HOUSE by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY PRELUDE by JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE ODE TO LUDLOW CASTLE by LUCY AIKEN LEFT BEHIND by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN |