IT LIES amongst the sleeping stones, <br />Far down the hidden mountain glade; <br />And past its brink the torrent moans <br />For ever in a dreamy shade. <br /> <br />A little patch of dark-green moss, <br />Whose softness grew of quiet ways <br />(With all its deep, delicious floss) <br />In slumb’rous suns of summer days. <br /> <br />You know the place? With pleasant tints <br />The broken sunset lights the bowers; <br />And then the woods are full with hints <br />Of distant, dear, voluptuous flowers! <br /> <br />’Tis often now the pilgrim turns <br />A faded face towards that seat, <br />And cools his brow amongst the ferns; <br />The runnel dabbling at his feet. <br /> <br />There fierce December seldom goes, <br />With scorching step and dust and drouth; <br />But, soft and low, October blows <br />Sweet odours from her dewy mouth. <br /> <br />And Autumn, like a gipsy bold, <br />Doth gather near it grapes and grain, <br />Ere Winter comes, the woodman old, <br />To lop the leaves in wind and rain. <br /> <br />O, greenest moss of mountain glen, <br />The face of Rose is known to thee; <br />But we shall never share with men <br />A knowledge dear to love and me! <br /> <br />For are they not between us saved, <br />The words my darling used to say, <br />What time the western waters laved <br />The forehead of the fainting day? <br /> <br />Cool comfort had we on your breast <br />While yet the fervid noon burned mute <br />O’er barley field and barren crest, <br />And leagues of gardens flushed with fruit. <br /> <br />Oh, sweet and low, we whispered so, <br />And sucked the pulp of plum and peach; <br />But it was many years ago, <br />When each, you know, was loved of each.<br /><br />Henry Kendall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mountain-moss/
