A rift within twin cliffs precipitous

Splits the grim granite to the eastern sea

And a thin fringe of shelving shingly beach

That clings to the slant slabs of towering crags ;

The glen is but a dimple in the hill

Where it begins, and through it trickles clear

A rivulet that knows no violence

Save that afforded by some mossy stone,

Or fallen branch, and finds its way

Through green and golden glades.

But suddenly

Its bed drops sheer in double sickening plunge

Into th’abyss, and then a rising steam

Dews with its moisture hanging rock and fern,

So that great drops fall back into the pit,

The very well of night.  Steps, steep, askew,

Lead down where in a twilight dimly green

The troubled  pool uneasily receives

The headlong cataract to a quivering breast,

And once again the streamlet prattles on

Amongst the stones, no sadder for its shock,

No wiser than it was before its fall,

Running unheeding to the greedy sea.


Mona’s Herald     13.2.62