To Bran, as in his coracle he glides, A level of blue tides appears the deep; When o'er my shadowy steeds I loose the rein, A flowery plain my chariot seems to sweep. Yea, what to Bran uplifted on the prancing Of his proud skiff is smooth blue-glancing sea, Beneath this burning chariot of two wheels A breadth of bloom delightful laughs for me! Bran from his skiff-side views the joyous onset Of waves red-crested in the sunset glow; I see, o'er all the Plain of Sports flower-bedded, Of crimson-headed flowers the faultless flow Sea-horses glisten in the ocean azure Far as Bran's eyes can measure; but, to mine, Rivers a stream of honey bright are pouring For storing in my land beyond the brine. Brilliant the sea whereon thy skiff is guided, Dazzling the surf divided by thine hand; Yellow and azure its white brightness vary; It is indeed a light and airy land. The speckled salmon from the wave outleaping Where Bran goes sweeping through the ocean's wiles Are calves and lambs, not fishes of the water, Whose slaughter ne'er our path of peace defiles. And though thou see'st but one lone chariot rider A glider o'er the full-bloomed pleasant plain, From countless viewless steeds and chariots golden Thine eyes are holden by the mocking main. Large is the plain, with happy hosts 'tis crowded; Its colours in unclouded glory fall; A stream of silver, stairs of golden splendour, A full, free welcome tender unto all. A joyous game, enchanting and delicious, Above the luscious wine is featly played, By men and gentle women set in session, Without transgression, in the leafy shade. Along a woodland's top, that greenly bridges Blue, airy ridges, has thy curragh swum; Beneath thy very prow its shade impleaches With blushing peaches the empurpled plum-- A wood where vagrant fruit and flower are wreathing With clusters of the fragrant-breathing vine, A wood of foliage rich and golden-raying, A wood without decaying or decline. We have been here since first the earth had being, Yet neither seeing sere old age nor death, And hence we fear not any base beginning Of mortal sinning shall cut short our breath. Then let not Bran relax his steadfast rowing; The Land of Women shall be showing soon. Yea, Evna bright with every joyful blessing He shall be pressing ere the rise of moon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOU ARE FIRE EATERS by MARIANNE MOORE THE DEATH OF A PHOTOGRAPHER by KAREN SWENSON DIXIE by DANIEL DECATUR EMMETT THE FINDING OF LOVE by ROBERT RANKE GRAVES PIANO by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED by JONATHAN SWIFT ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES [OR, DOMINIONS] by WILLIAM WATSON AUNT FANNY; A LEGEND OF A SHIRT by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM STANZAS, OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF A RELATIVE ABROAD by BERNARD BARTON |