THE NIXIE’S POOL
Reading edition
Coming through the green-gold beech woods Where the great, gray tree boles are, Where the fallen leaves are bronze, He found, like a star The little pool, Leaf patterned, dark and cool. Not by his hound, Nor by his unhappy lady Will he be found. The horn has not yet wound Reveille through the shady Or barren mountain pass Which can recall him from that pool of glass.
Ice to the barren twigs will come And winter. It will not befall Him in that green-gold gloom. He will not change at all Though armour melt like ice, and castles be Eaten by mothy Time like tapestry. And Time grow so staggering, gay, and old That all of his pulses manifold Run together and stop. Still will he Kneel, stern, and young, and cool, Wooing that Nixie in that pool.
