DART

Elfin river, stealing from far-off granite cradle, Musical the place names upon thy tidal water; Tuckenhay and Greenway, Stoke Gabriel and Dittisham, Sharpham and Duncannon, beside thy margin’s mirror— Sweet bells all a-chiming for native ear that knows them. Rainbows in November, above the hillside footed, Burn along the brake fern to set the auburn flaming In transparent wonders of emerald and purple; Till descends the hailstorm, with lash and scourge ice-knotted, Hurtling through the coppice; from larch and cherry robbing Amber dust and crimson. Chattering then and hissing, And fretting first thy bosom into a sudden torment, He draws his tatters round him and huddles off to seaward. So the sun returning, by hover and by ripple, Charms thy fleeting turmoil and wins thee back to laughter. At the river ferry a little bell is calling; And where the red earth arches, low on the blue above it, Man and horses ploughing, herald a cloud behind them Of the great, white sea-fowl that feed along the furrow. Cobweb grey thine orchards, still the last apples ling’ring, Topaz and ruby tangled upon the frosted lichen; While broad, oaken hangers, a rapture for the sunset, Meet the steadfast beech scrub, like red-hot fire aglowing, Till their conflagrations, that blaze along the tide way, Melt in flame and mingle their wonder with thy crystal. Massy, rounded elm-trees roll out along the river, And above, in billows far mightier and vaster, Sail the light-laden clouds, that lift another forest Bossed and round as they are and carry up their image, Crested, crowned and golden, into the hyaline azure. Pale that lifted glory and faint those sun-touched summits Seen against the ardour of thine own earth-born elm-trees. Down beside the reed-rond, pulse of the sea, a-weary, Doth bring a wreath of flow’rs to mark the place of parting. High above them glitters the wide weir’s silver apron And the bright salmon leap, springing from salt to sweetness. Farewell, worthy worship in all thy times and seasons; By thy magic subtle of many a deep and rapid; By thy sunny reaches and mystery of shadow; Thy gentle hillsides green and dear delight of forests; By the surprise of coombs, the hanging woods and dingles; The happy days and sad; the murmur of thy voices; Thy changing, winsome moods and little lovelinesses, Thou art all Devon, and so incomparably England.

Her cottage solitary stood Beside the granite Rundlestone— Lonely enough, but not so lone That fortune missed it, ill and good. And faring by that way once more I sought to see the friend of old, And found an orange-lily’s gold Still burning by her cottage door. There seemed no stir about the place; No voice responded to my call; I heard no tardy footsteps fall, Nor welcomed her familiar face. From open window overhead There came a dull and fitful flap, Where the blind bulged and filled the gap And billowed as the breezes sped. Empty the house, for she had gone Full many a moon before that day, Passing in steadfast faith away To join her man beneath his stone. And now, when currents of the mind Drift to my thought her vanished name, I see the orange-lily flame And hear the flapping of a blind.