ME A DO W RUE. 



Adown the steep in careless freedom flung, 



Caught up with wandering fringes, loose and cool, 

 And left the dripping, deep-green moss among, 

 Beside some quiet pool. 



Now circled by the dizzying tide, 



And wet with drift of blinding spray; 



Now on the sloping turf reclined, 



And stirred by breezes soft and kind ; 



Now half-way up the jagged side 



Of cliffs that break the narrow way ; 



Hers is a native lightness, fine and free, 

 A grave and quiet beauty, fitting best, 



A sylvan charm of frank simplicity, 

 And most, a sense of rest. 



When emerald slopes are drowned in song, 



When weary grows the unclouded blue, 

 When warm winds sink in billowy bloom, 

 And flood you with a faint perfume, 

 One moment leave the rapturous throng 

 To seek the haunts of meadow rue ! 



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