Beneath the surface of the crystal water
Metallic shines a floor of frosted green;
Uneven, like a depth of emerald lichen,
Thro' ranks of dark weeds gleams its fairy sheen.
Horsetails of varied growth and plumage sombre,
Like ancient warriors in dark armor dight;
Like fair young maidens' arms the prism-hued grass-leaves,
Clinging in fond embrace before the fight.
Round and about this silent pool the ash-trees
Bend down in thirsty eagerness to drink;
Amid their gray-green leaves show, keenly vivid,
Long feathering laurel-sprays that clothe the brink.
High up in air, some thirty feet or over,
A wild white rose above the footpath clings;
Fearless she clasps a tough, unyielding ash-trunk,
And o'er the pool gay wreaths of blossom flings.
Idly I drop a pebble in the water,
Each sombre horsetail nods a plumed head;
Like pearl or opal gem, the stone sinks slowly,
Transmuted ere it reach its emerald bed.
Mystic the emerald hue beneath the water,
Weirdlike this tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
Or is the deep and silent pool enchanted?
Now as the widening ripple circles shoreward,
The plumed dusky warriors file away;
The slender grass-blades wave bright arms imploring.
Streaking with tender green the grim array.
Leafless, a gaunt-armed giant oak, storm-scathed,
In gnarled bareness overhangs the pool;
Fantastic show its knotted limbs contorted,
Grotesque and gray among the leafage cool.
Caught here and there amid the feathered foliage
Are glimpses of the far hills' softened blue,
While overhead the clouds, snow-white and fleecy,
Float slowly on a yet intenser hue.
From Norman times 'tis said, maybe from Saxon,
This calm tree-circled lake secluded lay,
Pure as an infant's breast, its crystal mirror
Baring its inmost depths to gaze of day.
Some specks there are, some clay-flakes on its surface,
To open view revealed, like childish sin;
No roots have they, nor downward growth, to canker
The purity that dwells the pool within.
Mystic the em'rald hue beneath the water,
Fairy the tint by which the scene is haunted;
Vainly I ask my senses if they wake,
Or is the clear and silent pool enchanted?
The swallow flits two-bodied o'er the water,
Its four wings like a windmill's sails outspread;
Through the dark horsetails shoot the silver grayling,
To seize the May-fly skimming overhead.
Flying from lawless love — so runs the story —
A maiden plunged beneath this silent wave;
There, where a holly sits the bank so closely,
She sprang and sank — beyond all power to save.
Six hundred years and more since that dark legend,
Legend that stained a king with lasting shame —
And still the deep and silent pool lies crystal,
Crystal and clear as that poor maiden's fame.
Yet mystic is the hue beneath the water;
Unreal the tint by which the scene is haunted; —
Again I ask my senses if they wake,
Or if the silent pool's indeed enchanted?