A strong sea-wind flies up and sings <br />Across the blown-wet border, <br />Whose stormy echo runs and rings <br />Like bells in wild disorder. <br /> <br />Fierce breath hath vexed the foreland's face, <br />It glistens, glooms, and glistens; <br />But deep within this quiet place <br />Sweet Illa lies and listens. <br /> <br />Sweet Illa of the shining sands, <br />She sleeps in shady hollows, <br />Where August flits with flowerful hands, <br />And silver Summer follows. <br /> <br />Far up the naked hills is heard <br />A noise of many waters, <br />But green-haired Illa lies unstirred <br />Amongst her star-like daughters. <br /> <br />The tempest, pent in moaning ways, <br />Awakes the shepherd yonder, <br />But Illa dreams unknown to days <br />Whose wings are wind and thunder. <br /> <br />Here fairy hands and floral feet <br />Are brought by bright October; <br />Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat, <br />Comes Autumn, sweet and sober. <br /> <br />Here lovers rest, what time the red <br />And yellow colours mingle, <br />And daylight droops with dying head <br />Beyond the western dingle. <br /> <br />And here, from month to month, the time <br />Is kissed by peace and pleasure, <br />While Nature sings her woodland rhyme <br />And hoards her woodland treasure. <br /> <br />Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreads <br />Her wings o'er towns unshaded, <br />How oft we seek thy mossy beds <br />To lave our foreheads faded! <br /> <br />For, let me whisper, then we find <br />The strength that lives, nor falters, <br />In wood and water, waste and wind, <br />And hidden mountain altars.<br /><br />Henry Kendall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/illa-creek/
