The Fens
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andering by the river's edge,I love to rustle through the sedgeAnd through the woods of reed to tearAlmost as high as bushes are.Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,As danger ever does from ill,Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,While plop the snake coils in the floodAnd, hissing with a forked tongue,Across the river winds along.In coat of orange, green, and blueNow on a willow branch I view,Grey waving to the sunny gleam,Kingfishers watch the ripple streamFor little fish that nimble byeAnd in the gravel shallows lie. Eddies run before the boats,Gurgling where the fisher floats,Who takes advantage of the galeAnd hoists his handkerchief for sailOn osier twigs that form a mast--While idly lies, nor wanted more,The spirit that pushed him on before. There's not a hill in all the view,Save that a forked cloud or twoUpon the verge of distance liesAnd into mountains cheats the eyes.And as to trees the willows wearLopped heads as high as bushes are;Some taller things the distance shroudsThat may be trees or stacks or cloudsOr may be nothing; still they wearA semblance where there's nought to spare. Among the tawny tasselled reedThe ducks and ducklings float and feed.With head oft dabbing in the floodThey fish all day the weedy mud,And tumbler-like are bobbing there,Heels topsy turvy in the air. The geese in troops come droving up,Nibble the weeds, and take a sup;And, closely puzzled to agree,Chatter like gossips over tea.The gander with his scarlet noseWhen strife's at height will interpose;And, stretching neck to that and this,With now a mutter, now a hiss,A nibble at the feathers too,A sort of "pray be quiet do,"And turning as the matter mends,He stills them into mutual friends;Then in a sort of triumph singsAnd throws the water oer his wings. Ah, could I see a spinney nigh,A puddock riding in the skyAbove the oaks with easy sailOn stilly wings and forked tail,Or meet a heath of furze in flower,I might enjoy a quiet hour,Sit down at rest, and walk at ease,And find a many things to please.But here my fancy's moods admireThe naked levels till they tire,Nor een a molehill cushion meetTo rest on when I want a seat. Here's little save the river sceneAnd grounds of oats in rustling greenAnd crowded growth of wheat and beans,That with the hope of plenty leansAnd cheers the farmer's gazing brow,Who lives and triumphs in the plough--One sometimes meets a pleasant swardOf swarthy grass; and quickly marredThe plough soon turns it into brown,And, when again one rambles downThe path, small hillocks burning lieAnd smoke beneath a burning sky.Green paddocks have but little charmsWith gain the merchandise of farms;And, muse and marvel where we may,Gain mars the landscape every day--The meadow grass turned up and copt,The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt,The hearth with fuel to supplyFor rest to smoke and chatter bye;Giving the joy of home delights,The warmest mirth on coldest nights.And so for gain, that joy's repay,Change cheats the landscape every day,Nor trees nor bush about it growsThat from the hatchet can repose,And the horizon stooping smilesOer treeless fens of many miles.Spring comes and goes and comes againAnd all is nakedness and fen.
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