Then to the rich.
You cannot miss the turning:
for folds @ mountain in its arm, And at this season there'll be brush fires burning, And golden stubble strotchin farm on farm. Trout rising.
A grouse drumming. The low thunder Of waggons on the bridge, and far away The silver silence that is skin to wonder—Where dreams the bay.
Now, this is something—to have known the savour Of marshes when the misty sedge is dim; The strange breath of them, and the pagan flavour That clings to memory asa chanted hymn. Yes, you will love my marshes. The swift sally Of teal above the rushes, and the slow Flight of the heron when the purple valley Floods with the afterglow.
Grey house beyond the dunes. The clean beach shelving To a green tide that whispers as it comes, With black coots in the broken rater delving, ud the deep resonance of ancient drums. ki ick once, lad. They are kindly folk and cheerful, And there are braided rugs upon the floor—Though years ago, 1 id, her eyes were tearful—Knock once, und swing the door.
There all the stars are nearer.
There the treasures That the sea brings are yours to ponder on; There kelp-fish ave, and the unreckoned pleasures That I remember now such as the dawn. 'A gray house past the dunes. Lad, there'll be laughter!
They'll set the kettle on and brew your te And the driftwood glow that follows after Perhaps they'll speak of Ben Hur Lampman,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.