The Kiln
Beside the creek where seldom oar or sailAdventures, and the gulls whistling like menPatrol the pasture of the falling tide,Like Timon's mansion stands the silent kiln.Half citadel, half temple, strong it standsWith layered stones built into cavernous curves,The fire-vault now as cool as leaves and stonesAnd dews can be. Here came my flitting thought,The only visitor of a sunny day,Except the half-mad wasp that fights with all,The leaping cricket in his apple-green,And emerald beetle with his golden helmet;While the south wind woke all the colonyOf sorrels and sparse daisies, berried iviesAnd thorns bowed down with sloes, and brambles redOffering a feast that no child came to take.
In these unwanted derelicts of manNature has touched the picture with a smileOf more than usual mystery; the far heightsWith thunderous forest marshalled are her toil,But this her toy, her petty larcenyThat pleased her, lurking like a gipsy girl,My thought came here with artfulness like hersTo spy on her, and, though she fled, pursuedTo where on eastern islands, in the cellsOf once grave seers, her iris woos the wind.
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