Classic Poem

The 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.

The Ayrshire peasant, years ago,
Drank down religion in a cool
Deep draught of waters such as flow
From out this pebbly little pool.

But different far is it with me,
Here, where the piping curlews call;
The creatures will not let me see
The great creator of them all.

And I should choose to go to sleep,
With Merlin in Broceliande,
To hear the elm boughs hiss and sweep,
In summer winds on either hand.

To cling to forest-trees and grass
And this dear world of hill and plain,
For fear, whatever came to pass,
God would not give as good again.

And some may use the gospel so,
That is a pharos unto me,
And guide themselves to hell, although
Their chart should lead them unto Thee.

Lord, shut our eyes or shut our mind,
Or give us love, in case we fall;
'Tis better to go maim and blind
Than not to reach the Lord at all.