204 OXFORD: THE UPPER RIVER 



claim to know a little of the upper river. Yes, here 

 are the verses. It is early morning. Listen. 



KING'S WEIR. 



Hung in the hand of dawn a few 

 Chill stars are paling to their death 



Above the meadows white with dew, 

 And heavy with the orchis' breath. 



Where bees protest a drowsy tale. 

 And plaintive peewits fall and twist. 



And in the mowing-grass the rail — 

 A strident-voiced ventriloquist — 



Cieeps between challenging and fear. 

 And the small bat eccentric flits — 



Taking the moth — and on the Weir 

 A single yellow-wagtail sits. 



And, wakened by the wakening morn. 

 The herald breeze begins to blow, 



But now a doubtful murmur born 

 Of shivering hill-side beach, and now 



