Thy poetry is like a mountain lake,
Wherein the tired wanderer may see
The silver birch-trees and the timid brake
Sway quietly.
They bow to listen to the waters mute -
To wooing waves their mossy banks among,
Breathing, like music from a hidden lute,
A still, sweet song.
Moved by its melody the wavelets play,
And win rich jewels from the kindly sun,
That gleam and blend, and softly melt away
When day is done.
But ere the flushing waves shall cease to glow,
Murmuring a tender welcome to the night,
Far in the depths the eternal stars will show
Their holy light.