Moss on a Wall
Dim dreams it hath of singing ways,Of far-off woodland water-heads,And shining ends of April daysAmongst the yellow runnel-beds.
Stoop closer to the ruined wall,Whereon the wilful wilding sleeps,As if its home were waterfallBy dripping clefts and shadowy steeps.
A little waif, whose beauty takesA touching tone because it dwellsSo far away from mountain lakes,And lily leaves, and lightening fells.
Deep hidden in delicious flossIt nestles, sister, from the heat—A gracious growth of tender mossWhose nights are soft, whose days are sweet.
Swift gleams across its petals runWith winds that hum a pleasant tune,Serene surprises of the sun,And whispers from the lips of noon.
The evening-coloured apple-treesAre faint with July’s frosty breath.But lo! this stranger getteth ease,And shines amidst the strays of Death.
And at the turning of the year,When August wanders in the cold,The raiment of the nursling hereIs rich with green and glad with gold.
Oh, friend of mine, to one whose eyesAre vexed because of alien things,For ever in the wall moss liesThe peace of hills and hidden springs.
From faithless lips and fickle lightsThe tired pilgrim sets his face,And thinketh here of sounds and sightsIn many a lovely forest-place.
And when by sudden fits and startsThe sunset on the moss doth burn,He often dreams, and, lo! the martsAnd streets are changed to dells of fern.
For, let me say, the wilding placedBy hands unseen amongst these stones,Restores a Past by Time effaced,Lost loves and long-forgotten tones!
As sometimes songs and scenes of oldCome faintly unto you and me,When winds are wailing in the cold,And rains are sobbing on the sea.