Fox's Earth to Mountain Tarn 



pass through the woodstrip. We issue on the 

 pasture where the great steer graze. We turn 

 where the grey ripples break in white on the 

 yellow sand. Many, by the way, say " Lo here, 

 lo there.' 1 They be among those who have no 

 true thirst, no aspiration, no sense of other's want. 

 The chalice cup still hides away from eager eyes 

 and dry lips. 



The plain left behind, we climb the hills. An 

 uncongenial presence has gone before. Arid are 

 the slopes, the search still vain. A lap of water, 

 as though in the filling of a cup, reaches the ear. 

 A mystic gleam shines, amid engirdling summits, 

 which rain down of their glittering waste. We 

 draw near over the rude approach, skirting the 

 great rocks which rise through the brown heath. 

 The gathering mists play and dissolve, as though 

 some thought were brooding, some meaning 

 about to break forth. A bowl appears resting on 

 its stem, and made golden in the setting sun. 

 Beside is a form, ethereal in its shifting mould. 

 On the shining strand lies craft never launched 

 before. How alluring it all is compared with the 

 empty scenes men call nature ! 



Sometimes, on lonely mountain meres, 



I find a magic bark , 

 I leap on board, no helmsman steers, 



I sail till all is dark. 



THE END 



