There stood a low and ivied roof, <br />As gazing rustics tell, <br />In times of chivalry and song <br />'Yclept the holy well. <br /> <br />Above the ivies' branchlets gray <br />In glistening clusters shone; <br />While round the base the grass-blades bright <br />And spiry foxglove sprung. <br /> <br />The brambles clung in graceful bands, <br />Chequering the old gray stone <br />With shining leaflets, whose bright face <br />In autumn's tinting shone. <br /> <br />Around the fountain's eastern base <br />A babbling brooklet sped, <br />With sleepy murmur purling soft <br />Adown its gravelly bed. <br /> <br />Within the cell the filmy ferns <br />To woo the clear wave bent; <br />And cushioned mosses to the stone <br />Their quaint embroidery lent. <br /> <br />The fountain's face lay still as glass- <br />Save where the streamlet free <br />Across the basin's gnarled lip <br />Flowed ever silently. <br /> <br />Above the well a little nook <br />Once held, as rustics tell, <br />All garland-decked, an image of <br />The Lady of the Well. <br /> <br />They tell of tales of mystery, <br />Of darkling deeds of woe; <br />But no! such doings might not brook <br />The holy streamlet's flow. <br /> <br />Oh tell me not of bitter thoughts, <br />Of melancholy dreams, <br />By that fair fount whose sunny wall <br />Basks in the western beams. <br /> <br />When last I saw that little stream, <br />A form of light there stood, <br />That seemed like a precious gem, <br />Beneath that archway rude: <br /> <br />And as I gazed with love and awe <br />Upon that sylph-like thing, <br />Methought that airy form must be <br />The fairy of the spring. <br /> <br /> <br />Helston, 1835.<br /><br />Charles Kingsley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trehill-well/
