Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/113

 Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads

Her wings o'er towns unshaded,

How oft we seek thy mossy beds

To lave our foreheads faded!

For, let me whisper, then we find

The strength that lives, nor falters,

In wood and water, waste and wind,

And hidden mountain altars.

dreams it hath of singing ways,

Of far-off woodland water-heads,

And shining ends of April days

Amongst the yellow runnel-beds.

Stoop closer to the ruined wall,

Whereon the wilful wilding sleeps,

As if its home were waterfall

By dripping clefts and shadowy steeps.

A little waif, whose beauty takes

A touching tone because it dwells

So far away from mountain lakes,

And lily leaves, and lightening fells.

Deep hidden in delicious floss

It nestles, sister, from the heat—

A gracious growth of tender moss

Whose nights are soft, whose days are sweet.

Swift gleams across its petals run

With winds that hum a pleasant tune,

Serene surprises of the sun,

And whispers from the lips of noon.

The evening-coloured apple-trees

Are faint with July's frosty breath.

But lo! this stranger getteth ease,

And shines amidst the strays of Death.