Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/130

 XXXV

HE laggard hours drift slowly by; while silver mist-wreaths veil the sky

And iron coast wheron, flung high, the North Sea breaks in foam.

When flame the pallid Northern Lights on seeming age-long winter nights,

Then oftentimes for our delight God sends a dream of Home.

And once again we know the peace of little red-roofed villages

That nestle close in some deep crease amid the rolling wealds

That northward, eastward, southward sweep, fragrant with thyme and flecked with sheep,

To where the corn is standing deep above the ripening fields.

And once again in that fair dream I see the sibilant, swift stream—

Now gloomy-green and now agleam—that flows by Furnace Mill, 88