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A Bed in the Hills.
31
A BED IN THE HILLS.
Surely a pleasant place to rest
For this tired soul whose cares are over,
His head upon the mountain-breast,
His cover beaded white with clover.
From the green marsh and reedy pool
I hear the music of the moorland
In lonely cry, and whispering air
That shakes the rushes’ tasselled garland.
Sometimes a bee goes droning by
On merchant’s errand.
For this tired soul whose cares are over,
His head upon the mountain-breast,
His cover beaded white with clover.
From the green marsh and reedy pool
I hear the music of the moorland
In lonely cry, and whispering air
That shakes the rushes’ tasselled garland.
Sometimes a bee goes droning by
On merchant’s errand.
What was thy story? Didst thon love?
And was thy love a curse or blessing?
The reddest cup that Circe pours,
Or sacramental joy possessing?
Did’st ever build upon the cloud
A house of purple, vain romances?
Did’st ever know thy faith betrayed ?
—The bitterest of life’s bitter chances,
The first of all the deaths we meet
In chill advances.
And was thy love a curse or blessing?
The reddest cup that Circe pours,
Or sacramental joy possessing?
Did’st ever build upon the cloud
A house of purple, vain romances?
Did’st ever know thy faith betrayed ?
—The bitterest of life’s bitter chances,
The first of all the deaths we meet
In chill advances.
Peace! peace! The summer breathes around,
Gold marsh cups bloom in every hollow,
The seeding thistle sheds her down,
And airy spears of hawkweed follow.
Gold marsh cups bloom in every hollow,
The seeding thistle sheds her down,
And airy spears of hawkweed follow.