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!