Whose waters,
Changing not with drought or cold,
Know sailing pomp
Of cloud and mirrored gold;
Shy creatures of the glen
Stoop there to drink
And sleepng lilies
Freight the shallow brink.
Never fish swims,
Dark roach or speckled trout,
Darting from burnished stones
Swift in and out.
Sunken deep down,
Yet strangely green and near,
The swinging elfland
City may appear.
With tranced turret reared
And lights to the stream
As now the sunset
Colours glance and gleam.
Red mosses bind the edge,
And dim blue flowers
So small that they might
Gem Titania's bowers;
The Heron drowses;
And the dragon-fly
Makes minute music there
Sustained and high;
And when the moon-dappled shadows
Stretch and bar
The tangled reeds
Net each a silver star.
- Kathleen Foyle -