A PASTORAL
Nature feels the touch of noon;
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
Not a shadow flecks the sky,
Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;
Not a ripple dims the glass
Of the wide lagoon.
Not a rustle stirs the grass;
Not a shadow flecks the sky,
Save the brown hawk hovering nigh;
Not a ripple dims the glass
Of the wide lagoon.
Darkly, like an armed host
Seen afar against the blue,
Rise the hills, and yellow grey
Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,
Like a shining sea that dreams
Round a silent coast.
Seen afar against the blue,
Rise the hills, and yellow grey
Sleeps the plain in cove and bay,
Like a shining sea that dreams
Round a silent coast.
From the heart of these blue hills,
Like the joy that flows from peace,
Creeps the river far below
Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow.
Surely here there seems surcease
From the care that kills.
Like the joy that flows from peace,
Creeps the river far below
Fringed with willow, sinuous, slow.
Surely here there seems surcease
From the care that kills.
