From shadows of rich oaks outpeer
The moss-green bastions of the weir,
Where the quick dipper forages
In elver-peopled crevices.
And a small runlet trickling down the sluice
Gossamer music tires not to unloose.
Else round the broad pool's hush
Unless sometime a straggling heifer crush
Through the thronged spinny whence the pheasant whirs;
Or martins in a flash
Come with wild mirth to dip their magical wings,
While in the shallow some doomed bulrush swings
At whose hid root the diver vole's teeth gnash.
And nigh this toppling reed, still as the dead
The great pike lies, the murderous patriarch,
Watching the waterpit shelving and dark
Where through the plash his lithe bright vassals thread.
The rose-finned roach and bluish bream.
And staring ruffe steal up the stream
Hard by their glutted tyrant, now
Still as a sunken bough.
He on the sandbank lies,
Sunning himself long hours
With stony gorgon eyes:
Westward the hot sun lowers.
Sudden the grey pike changes, and quivering, poises for
Intense terror wakens around him, the shoals scud awry,
but there chances
A chub unsuspecting; the prowling fins quicken, in fury
And the miller that opens the hatch stands amazed at the whirl
in the water.