Page:The witch-maid & other verses (1914).djvu/63

 Forty miles to westward, A hundred north, Wind-fiends hunt the water Back—back and forth.

There are reed-grown islands The eye scarce sees, Grey ooze guarding grimly Their mysteries.

Strange Things may survive there, What, who can tell? Monsters old—the lake-slime Can guard them well.

No one knows those islands,— The gulls that fly May go near, but others Would surely die.