Page:The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Vailima Edition, Volume 8, 1922.djvu/398

NEW POEMS Ah, well, they are but wishes still;

But, lady dear, for you

I know that all you wish is kind,

I pray it all come true.

X

THE WELL-HEAD

HE withered rushes made a flame

Across the marsh of rusty red;

The dreary plover ever came

And sang above the old well-head.

About it crouch the junipers,

Green-black and dewed with berries white,

And in the grass the water stirs,

Aloud all day, aloud all night.

The spring has scarcely come, 'tis said;

Yet sweet and pleasant art thou still,

'Mong withered rushes, old well-head,

Upon the sallow-shouldered hill.

The grass from which these waters came,

These waters swelling from the sod,

Had been a bible unto some,

A grave phylactery of God.

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