to the lake at Coombe Abbey

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I ask, if thou might know, to tell me plain

From whence did man so cloak from that disdain

Past which we seldom reach – to welcome see

With bright eyes the celestial shape of thee.

Of such, there is no answer in my breast.

Inclined, I do admit, to think it jest

And thus await the snatching of the rug,

Its green-gold grandeur vanquished with one tug.

But oh! The whisper’s true, the heat and breeze

Does brush my skin. The shimm’ring bended trees

Do stroke the glassy blue; the regal swan

And goose find rest. The sparrow here, then gone.

But ‘tis the heron, mighty Zeus of Coombe

Whose wings like bellows o’er thy face do loom.

 

3 thoughts on “to the lake at Coombe Abbey

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