Illa Creek
A strong sea-wind flies up and singsAcross the blown-wet border,Whose stormy echo runs and ringsLike bells in wild disorder.
Fierce breath hath vexed the foreland’s face,It glistens, glooms, and glistens;But deep within this quiet placeSweet Illa lies and listens.
Sweet Illa of the shining sands,She sleeps in shady hollows,Where August flits with flowerful hands,And silver Summer follows.
Far up the naked hills is heardA noise of many waters,But green-haired Illa lies unstirredAmongst her star-like daughters.
The tempest, pent in moaning ways,Awakes the shepherd yonder,But Illa dreams unknown to daysWhose wings are wind and thunder.
Here fairy hands and floral feetAre brought by bright October;Here, stained with grapes and smit with heat,Comes Autumn, sweet and sober.
Here lovers rest, what time the redAnd yellow colours mingle,And daylight droops with dying headBeyond the western dingle.
And here, from month to month, the timeIs kissed by peace and pleasure,While Nature sings her woodland rhymeAnd hoards her woodland treasure.
Ah, Illa Creek! ere evening spreadsHer wings o’er towns unshaded,How oft we seek thy mossy bedsTo lave our foreheads faded!
For, let me whisper, then we findThe strength that lives, nor falters,In wood and water, waste and wind,And hidden mountain altars.