The Wye
(Near Monmouth)
A land of hills and woods and yew-crowned rocks,
All scarred and furrowed by primeval flood;
With many a bastion, grim and bare, which mocks
The anger of the storm-god's fiercest mood.
Above, the oak stands as it long has stood
Through winter's tempests; and, adown, the green,
The rich dark green of ivy that has wooed
The time-worn limestone, trails; and all between
The rifts and sheltered nooks, the fern's chaste form is seen.
Below, the slow, broad-curving river; here,
The willows lie reflected in the stream,
Placid and deep; and there, the noisy weir,
Where tiny wavelets in the sunlight gleam.
Hard by, a loiterer, lying in a dream
Upon the bank: far off, a bare hillside;
And farther, boundless forest growths which seem
Most solemn and most calm, as far and wide
They stretch majestic arms, in all their summer pride.