At the Ferry
by Rosamund Marriott Watson
Here by the stream I sit,
Where the dull water floweth evermore,—
The listless water lapping on the shore—
This long low strand by sun and stars unlit.
Knee-deep in river musk
I hear the black-leaved poplars sigh and sway,
The plash of cars upon the water-way
As Charon’s boat swings huge upon the dusk.
I watch the phantoms land,
And some step shoreward faint and shuddering,
With brows rose-garlanded for life’s fair Spring;
And others mute and sore-bewildered stand,
With eyes bedimmed and dazed
In the new twilight-gloom ;—yet some there be,
That seek the smooth still haven longingly
And through the gleaming wander unamazed.
But when she cometh—fair
And passing sweet this murky land shall be,
Soul of my soul—unmet by shore or sea—
Whom knew I never in the upper air,
Then sudden day shall dawn,
And wheresoe’er her lovely feet be set
Shall spring the crocus and the violet,
And lilies white as ivory new-sawn.
Where never daylight shone,
Before her face a tremulous gold ray
Shall turn to golden mist this twilight grey,
And roses blossom here in Acheron.