Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/226



And buried in the yellow broom That crowns the neighbouring height, Couches a loutish shepherd groom, With all his flocks in sight; Which dot the green braes gloriously With spots of living light.

It is a sight that filleth me With meditative joy, To mark these dumb things curiously, Crowd round their guardian boy; As if they felt this Sabbath hour Of bliss lacked all alloy.

I bend me towards the tiny flower, That underneath this tree Opens its little breast of sweets In meekest modesty, And breathes the eloquence of love In muteness, Lord! to thee.

There is no breath of wind to move The flag-like leaves that spread Their grateful shadow far above This turf-supported head; All sounds are gone—all murmurings With living nature wed.