THE CHINE
Within the chine where we are summoned now
By water tinkling airily and low
We find no flower, orchis fleshy pale,
Nor arbutus, nor hyacinths that frail
Blossom the bare snow-haunted woods amid—
The smallest veinings of a maiden's lid
Are no more sweet of tint—but moss, yes moss,
That creeps and pringles like strong silver floss,
Or lies in folds of ashen velvet cool,
Or crowds the sloping margin of the pool
With little eager stars, or poises still
Its waxen spheres on stems invisible.
And ferns—we get a sudden joy of green
Poignant and pure as ever olivine
Or carven chrysolite could show. One spreads
In fairy benison above our heads
From an unthought of cleft and lightly curls
Its topmost strands to catch the water-pearls
That patter from above. And hoary plumes
Of fern we see no greener than the spumes
The moon-wan water washes over rocks
So lichen-fretted that they seem like blocks
Of aged ivory each overwrought
With script too fine for mortal eye or thought.
The stream-bed's scarcely seen so thickly there
The willow-witches shake their fading hair,
And every birchling makes a plaintive stir
As though a wind had clutched the locks of her.
Till we shut in by all this gray and green
Wonder indeed if we have ever seen
Buttercups, roses, dahlias hundred-pied
Or tiger-lilies—if our eyes beside
Can ever from this dim enchantment break
Or will they less love color for its sake?
By water tinkling airily and low
We find no flower, orchis fleshy pale,
Nor arbutus, nor hyacinths that frail
Blossom the bare snow-haunted woods amid—
The smallest veinings of a maiden's lid
Are no more sweet of tint—but moss, yes moss,
That creeps and pringles like strong silver floss,
Or lies in folds of ashen velvet cool,
Or crowds the sloping margin of the pool
With little eager stars, or poises still
Its waxen spheres on stems invisible.
And ferns—we get a sudden joy of green
Poignant and pure as ever olivine
Or carven chrysolite could show. One spreads
In fairy benison above our heads
From an unthought of cleft and lightly curls
Its topmost strands to catch the water-pearls
That patter from above. And hoary plumes
Of fern we see no greener than the spumes
The moon-wan water washes over rocks
So lichen-fretted that they seem like blocks
Of aged ivory each overwrought
With script too fine for mortal eye or thought.
The stream-bed's scarcely seen so thickly there
The willow-witches shake their fading hair,
And every birchling makes a plaintive stir
As though a wind had clutched the locks of her.
Till we shut in by all this gray and green
Wonder indeed if we have ever seen
Buttercups, roses, dahlias hundred-pied
Or tiger-lilies—if our eyes beside
Can ever from this dim enchantment break
Or will they less love color for its sake?