I a Mountain Spring
Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feetOf thunder and the ‘wildering wings of rainAgainst fire-rifted summits flash and beat,And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,Year after year, the days of tender heat,And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.A still, bright pool. To men I may not tellThe secret that its heart of water knows,The story of a loved and lost repose;Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.