Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE SEA, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE SEA, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: In murky gloom, in petulant rain
Last Line: And wake the yearning soul to praise.
Subject(s): Autumn; Seasons; Wales; Fall; Welshmen; Welshwomen


IN murky gloom, in petulant rain,
Thick swathed our sordid London lay,
White mists obscured the midland plain
Thro' all the drear November day

But with swift eve, the sinking sun
Smote the Welsh hills, and suddenly
Behold the reign of winter done,
Once more the blue, unclouded sky.

And with the dawn the impatient light
Streams through the darkened cells of sleep,
Till lo! full noontide broadening bright,
Brings azure sky and sapphire deep.

Oh joy, how beautiful a way
My happy fate prepares for me,
Who journey on this perfect day,
Between the mountains and the sea.

* * * *

We leave behind the grey old town,
The castle's flawless circuit tall,
Thin turrets like a mural crown,
Decking broad tower and frowning wall.

The faint pyramidal peaks of Lleyn
Rise sheer from out the encircling sea,
The palaced groves of Anglesey
Light the salt stream which flows between.

Moel and the great twin brethren high,
Eryri, king of upper air,
Soar on the clear autumnal sky,
'Mid thronging Titans everywhere.

Unveiled from base to summit all
Show russet fern and golden wood;
Bare steep, and skyward-climbing wall;
The fall that lights the solitude.

The rock-fenced fields, the wandering sheep
Climbing the mountain's perilous brow,
And sheltered by the quarried steep,
Village and chapel far below.

And see a dark procession come,
Slow on the sunlit highway sped,
Which bears to his eternal home,
With hymns, some village worthy dead.

And every word that you can hear,
And all the sorrowful measures sung,
Breathe the old Cymric spirit dear,
Clothed in the old undying tongue.

* * * *

Turn from the mountains to the sea,
The dark blue sea, where on the skies,
Faint as a phantom isle might be,
The hallowed heights of Bardsey rise.

The calm sea ripples on the sand,
The oft-vext deeps are lulled to rest,
A soft breeze breathing from the land
Dispels in mist each fairy crest.

Long miles upon the giddy verge
The swift train labours on its way,
The white gulls swoop; from surge to surge
The dusky cormorants dive and play.

The stone-roofed, massive homesteads grey,
The stacks by close-bound ropes confined,
Tell of the coming wintry day
Which wings with snow the whirling wind.

* * * *

The hills recede, till, lo! again,
Perched high in air a tiny town,
And stern above the lonely plain
Harlech's unshattered ramparts frown.

And then, again, a rival band
Of giant mountains close the view,
Cader, Arrenig, Aran stand
Serrated, huge, against the blue.

Last, thy sweet vale, Dolgelly! Where
Is any fairer? Oak-crowned isle,
Blue river, mounting woodsides fair,
The golden haze, the unchanging smile.

Not Como, nor Lugano hold
Serener azure depths divine,
Nor treasure of autumnal gold,
Nor guardian summits vast as thine.

* * * *

Again a widespread estuary,
And on the lone bird-haunted strand,
The white-winged squadrons circling free,
The land-locked pools, the ribbed seasand.

Fair Mawddach's charm returns again,
Sweet wandering Dovey, dost thou pour
A lovelier tribute to the main,
Than glides by Barmouth's sandy shore?

Nay, nay! I fear to award the crown
Of natural beauty; both are fair.
Here the tall hills seem gentler grown,
Here, richer meads, and softer air.

Then comes once more the level plain,
The sandy dunes, the half-hid blue,
The sea-beat towns which woo the main,
The academic towers which grew

Swift as the Caliph's palace fair,
On the loud verge; the chosen home
Of those who hold the things that were,
Less than the glory that shall come.

And then by labouring gradients slow,
Past park and hall, till ere the night
Obscures the hills, and settles low
On the loved vale, my straining sight

Welcomes the homely scene; thy steep
Grongar, long sacred to the Muse;
Broad Towy winding to the deep;
Llangunnor, with thy reverend yews.

Here, though 'tis Life's November, still
Are homely joys, and sunlit days,
Blest memories haunt each modest hill,
And wake the yearning soul to praise.





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