Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 67
LXVIITHE LADY OF TREES
By a lake below the mountain
Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
She had turned it to a tree.
Hangs the birch, as if, in glee,
The lake had flung the moon a fountain,
She had turned it to a tree.
Therefore do her dull leaves glimmer
Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
Always round her curvèd stem.
Like the waves that mothered them.
Therefore flits a moony shimmer
Always round her curvèd stem.