Silverdale

O glade of lapping water, rustling trees,

Of rich green grass, of ferns and gay bluebells

Pale primroses bejewelling tiny dells,

And, dark old mill-wheel, creaking round to squeeze

The corn to meal; of murmuring of bees,

Of three white ducks, of fallen chestnut shells,

Of rounded lake isle, grots and wishing wells,

Steeped in th’enchantment of fond memories.

 

O Silverdale, what music in my ears

Is the exquisite melody of thy name,

A melody grown richer with the years.

What visions in my eyes those sounds invoke,

To leap and burn with ever- brightening flame,

For there my heart with suddenness  awoke!