Dungog
HERE, pent about by office walls
And barren eyes all day,
’Tis sweet to think of waterfalls
Two hundred miles away!
I would not ask you, friends, to brook
An old, old truth from me,
If I could shut a Poet’s book
Which haunts me like the Sea!
He saith to me, this Poet saith,
So many things of light,
That I have found a fourfold faith,
And gained a twofold sight.
He telleth me, this Poet tells,
How much of God is seen
Amongst the deep-mossed English dells,
And miles of gleaming green.
From many a black Gethsemane,
He leads my bleeding feet
To where I hear the Morning Sea
Round shining spaces beat!
To where I feel the wind, which brings
A sound of running creeks,
And blows those dark, unpleasant things,
The sorrows, from my cheeks.
I’ll shut mine eyes, my Poet choice,
And spend the day with thee;
I’ll dream thou art a fountain voice
Which God hath sent to me!
And far beyond these office walls
My thoughts shall even stray,
And watch the wilful waterfalls,
Two hundred miles away.
For, if I know not of thy deeds,
And darling Kentish downs,
I’ve seen the deep, wild Dungog fells,
And hate the heart of towns!
Then, ho! for beaming bank and brake,
Far-folded hills among,
Where Williams, like a silver snake,
Draws winding lengths along!
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poem by Henry Kendall
Added by Poetry Lover
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