King’s Weir.
The house is silent ; on the stair1
My foot falls strangely, and there creeps2
A chill about the morning air3
That speeds me where the hamlet sleeps.4
I leave the sounding street and view5
The crescent paling to her death,6
And the broad meadows white with dew,7
And heavy with the orchis’ breath.8
Where bees protest a drowsy tale,9
And plaintive peewits fall and twist,10
And in the mowing-grass the rail—11
A strident-voiced ventriloquist—12
Creeps silently (its nest is near),13
And the small bat eccentric flits—14
Taking the moth—and on the Weir15
A single yellow-wagtail sits.16
And, wakened by the wakening morn,17
The herald breeze begins to blow :18
But now a doubtful murmur born19
Of shivering hill-side beach, and now20
It makes the silver poplars gleam,21
And fans the thistles into play,22
And whitens all the stiller stream,23
And passing sighs itself away.24
But it has left the water glad,25
And made the big trout plunge and hurl26
His length among the foam, and add27
A breaking circle to the swirl.28
Have we not seen a sick man lie29
Prone on a weary fever bed,30
With aimless hand and vacant eye31
To tell the light of reason fled ?32
He breathes, but dead to all the ills33
And joys of earth ; and can we give34
The name of life to breath that fills35
A mindless frame ? Is this to live ?36
But by-and-by the godlike light37
Of purpose dawning in his face,38
Plays widening round, till all is bright,39
And life regains her perfect place.40
The cold distinctness of the scene,41
When stars are dead and lands are grey,42
Seems such as this—the time between43
The dawning and the perfect day.44
But now the god, arising, shakes45
About the broadened canopy46
His locks red-gold, gold-red, and makes47
A glory in the eastern sky.48
And welling in the fount of dawn49
Grows the great lambent tide, the same50
That lights the diamond on the lawn,51
Or rages till the prairies flame.52
I see thee draw the wreathèd woof53
Of veiling mist across the plain ;54
I see thee glinting on the roof55
And burning on the burnished vane ;56
Lighting the sedge-bird’s secret place,57
Lifting the windflower’s tired head,58
Blushing upon the briar’s face,59
And laughing in the iris-bed.60
And the great soul of earth, that moves61
In all I see or cannot see,62
Springs, radiant at the touch she loves,63
To lose itself in thee.64