B 



SEA-COUNTRY 



ID me by poppied fields again, 

 Drift-campion and the seeded snow 

 In wealden hollows lulled and lain 

 From the wind's torment let me go ; 



Came ever inland peace so near 

 These storm-ports of the watery globe ? 

 Here is the salt-sown pine and here 

 The snake-stems wear a whispering robe. 



These coverts, paved with rushy green, 

 Were planted for the turtle's bower. 

 And faintly hums the breeze between 

 Crab-orchard and sea-pasturing flower : 



Here, in his twisted arbour-pale, 

 The marsh-bird warbles, as the sea 

 Had lent his voice a sail. 

 And wave-drops for fresh melody. 



'Tis the lark's race ; did he not win 

 The rippling steps of music's throne, 

 How clear, the dancing wave within. 

 Were heard, how many a voice less known 



How many a voice, ere this one slake 

 His thirst with cup that music yields. 

 And on the desert silence break, 

 And not these fields, and not these fields. 



VIVIAN LOCKE ELLIS. 



58 



