While The Billy BoilsSearchThe strong sob of the chafing streamThat seaward fights its wayDown crags of glitter, dells of gleam,Is in the hills to-day.
But far and faint, a grey-winged formHangs where the wild lights wane—The phantom of a bygone storm,A ghost of wind and rain.
The soft white feet of afternoonAre on the shining meads,The breeze is as a pleasant tuneAmongst the happy reeds.
The fierce, disastrous, flying fire,That made the great caves ring,And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,Is a forgotten thing.
The air is full of mellow sounds,The wet hill-heads are bright,And down the fall of fragrant grounds,The deep ways flame with light.
A rose-red space of stream I see,Past banks of tender fern;A radiant brook, unknown to meBeyond its upper turn.
The singing, silver life I hear,Whose home is in the green,Far-folded woods of fountains clear,Where I have never been.
Ah, brook above the upper bend,I often long to standWhere you in soft, cool shades descendFrom the untrodden land!
Ah, folded woods, that hide the graceOf moss and torrents strong,I often wish to know the faceOf that which sings your song!
But I may linger, long, and lookTill night is over all:My eyes will never see the brook,Or sweet, strange waterfall.
The world is round me with its heat,And toil, and cares that tire;I cannot with my feeble feetClimb after my desire.
But, on the lap of lands unseen,Within a secret zone,There shine diviner gold and greenThan man has ever known.
And where the silver waters singDown hushed and holy dells,The flower of a celestial Spring—A tenfold splendour, dwells.
Yea, in my dream of fall and brookBy far sweet forests furled,I see that light for which I lookIn vain through all the world—
The glory of a larger skyOn slopes of hills sublime,That speak with God and morning, highAbove the ways of Time!
Ah! haply in this sphere of changeWhere shadows spoil the beam,It would not do to climb that rangeAnd test my radiant Dream.
The slightest glimpse of yonder place,Untrodden and alone,Might wholly kill that nameless grace,The charm of the unknown.
And therefore, though I look and long,Perhaps the lot is brightWhich keeps the river of the songA beauty out of sight.