About it crouch the junipers,
Green-black and dewed with berries white,
And in the grass the water stirs,
Aloud all day, aloud all night.
The spring has scarcely come, 'tis said;
Yet sweet and pleasant art thou still,
'Mong withered rushes, old well-head,
Upon the sallow-shouldered hill.
The grass from which these waters came,
These waters swelling from the sod,
Had been a bible unto some,
A grave phylactery of God.
The Ayrshire peasant, years ago,
Drank down religion in a cool
Deep draught of waters such as flow
From out this pebbly little pool.
But different far is it with me,
Here, where the piping curlews call;
The creatures will not let me see
The great creator of them all.
And I should choose to go to sleep,
With Merlin in Broceliande,
[ 37 ]
