Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree; They read in arbors clipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. Old elms came breaking from the But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark. I leap on board; no helmsman steers ; I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. My good blade carves the casques of As down dark tides the glory slides, 40 |
