Classic Poem

To the monastic mind thy quiet shade
Kindly accords, bewild'ring Darnaway!
Here, those retiring Powers, whose hermit sway
The hordes of gross emotions hold obey'd
Reign indolent, on bank or flow'ry glade.
A deep unusual murmur meets my ear,
As if the oak's Briarean arms were sway'd
Far off in the weird wind. Like timorous deer
Caught as he browses by the hunter's horn,
I stop perplex'd, half dreading the career
Of coming whirlwind. Then with conquer'd fear
Advancing softly through a screen of thorn,
From edge of horrid rock, abruptly bold,
Rushing thro' conduit vast, swart Findhorn I behold.