THE POND

Gray were the rushes

Beside the budless bushes,

Green-patched the pond.

The lark had left soaring

Though yet the sun was pouring

His gold here and beyond.

Bramble-branches held me,

But had they not compelled me

Yet had I lingered there

Hearing the frogs and then

Watching the water-hen

That stared back at my stare.

There amid the bushes

Were blackbird's nests and thrush's,

Soon to be hidden

In leaves on green leaves thickening,

Boughs over long boughs quickening

Swiftly, unforbidden.

The lark had left singing

But song all round was ringing,

As though the rushes

Were sighingly repeating

And mingling that most sweet thing

With the sweet note of thrushes.

That sweetness rose all round me,

But more than sweetness bound me,

A spirit stirred;

Shadowy and cold it neared me,

Then shrank as if it feared me —

But‘ twas I that feared.