(I should have posted this in my last post really)

Beneath the shadows of a silver birch

A spring of purest water bubbles forth

And forms a pool at which the birds at dawn

Both drink and bathe, and where the timid life

Of common and of field doth browse the edge,

Then, bursting bounds, goes forth adventurous

To larger life.

 

And here the book-lime grows,

And hawthorns bloom, and mallard with his wives

All peer and poke in plenteous solitude.

Still further on it makes a quenching fount

Whence keeper’s cottage draws its modest needs,

And lordly pheasant proudly deigns to sip.

Then, gaining strength in volume and in voice,

And chattering as it runs, goes sparkling down

To modern life.

 
And here and there ‘twill pause

At brink of ledge; ‘twill pause, and pausing fall,

Just as a little child will hesitate,

Afraid to leap and risk the consequence

Till, overbalanced, jump, and, safely landed, laugh.

 

Below the bend three cottages still stand

In which live folk to beauty ill-attuned;

For here the stream is marred with empty tins

And broken crocks, and midden refuse foul.

And rats with baleful eyes and fetid breath

Beneath the alder roots do live and breed.

 

Above, upon a slender fragile bough,

Above the spot where ugliness is worst,

A feathered songster at the dawn of day

Raised up his voice to God in Heav’n and sang,

And sang as if his little heart would burst.

 

-- The Cleansing Voice, by H.E. Cole