Orara

THE STRONG sob of the chafing stream   
 That seaward fights its way   
Down crags of glitter, dells of gleam,   
 Is in the hills to-day.   
  
But far and faint, a grey-winged form           
 Hangs where the wild lights wane—   
The phantom of a bygone storm,   
 A ghost of wind and rain.   
  
The soft white feet of afternoon   
 Are on the shining meads,           
The breeze is as a pleasant tune   
 Amongst the happy reeds.   
  
The fierce, disastrous, flying fire,   
 That made the great caves ring,   
And scarred the slope, and broke the spire,           
 Is a forgotten thing.   
  
The air is full of mellow sounds,   
 The wet hill-heads are bright,   
And down the fall of fragrant grounds   
 The deep ways flame with light.           
  
A rose-red space of stream I see,   
 Past banks of tender fern;   
A radiant brook, unknown to me   
 Beyond its upper turn:   
  
The singing silver life I hear,           
 Whose home is in the green,   
Far-folded woods of fountains clear,   
 Where I have never been.   
  
Ah, brook above the upper bend,   
 I often long to stand           
Where you in soft, cool shades descend   
 From the untrodden land!   
  
Ah, folded woods, that hide the grace   
 Of moss and torrents strong,   
I often wish to know the face           
 Of that which sings your song!   
  
But I may linger, long, and look   
 Till night is over all:   
My eyes will never see the brook,   
 Or sweet, strange waterfall.           
  
The world is round me with its heat,   
 And toil, and cares that tire;   
I cannot with my feeble feet   
 Climb after my desire.   
  
But, on the lap of lands unseen,           
 Within a secret zone,   
There shine diviner gold and green   
 Than man has ever known.   
  
And where the silver waters sing   
 Down hushed and holy dells,           
The flower of a celestial Spring,   
 A tenfold splendour, dwells.   
  
Yea, in my dream of fall and brook   
 By far sweet forests furled,   
I see that light for which I look           
 In vain through all the world—   
  
The glory of a larger sky   
 On slopes of hills sublime,   
That speak with God and morning, high   
 Above the ways of Time!       
  
Ah! haply, in this sphere of change   
 Where shadows spoil the beam,   
It would not do to climb that range   
 And test my radiant Dream.   
  
The slightest glimpse of yonder place,         
 Untrodden and alone,   
Might wholly kill that nameless grace   
 The charm of the unknown.   
  
And therefore, though I look and long,   
 Perhaps the lot is bright           
Which keeps the river of the song   
 A beauty out of sight