The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge,

I love to rustle through the sedge

And through the woods of reed to tear

Almost as high as bushes are.

Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,

As danger ever does from ill,

Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,

While plop the snake coils in the flood

And, hissing with a forked tongue,

Across the river winds along.

In coat of orange, green, and blue

Now on a willow branch I view,

Grey waving to the sunny gleam,

Kingfishers watch the ripple stream

For little fish that nimble bye

And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats,

Gurgling where the fisher floats,

Who takes advantage of the gale

And hoists his handkerchief for sail

On osier twigs that form a mast--

While idly lies, nor wanted more,

The spirit that pushed him on before.

There's not a hill in all the view,

Save that a forked cloud or two

Upon the verge of distance lies

And into mountains cheats the eyes.

And as to trees the willows wear

Lopped heads as high as bushes are;

Some taller things the distance shrouds

That may be trees or stacks or clouds

Or may be nothing; still they wear

A semblance where there's nought to spare.

Among the tawny tasselled reed

The ducks and ducklings float and feed.

With head oft dabbing in the flood

They fish all day the weedy mud,

And tumbler-like are bobbing there,

Heels topsy turvy in the air.

The geese in troops come droving up,

Nibble the weeds, and take a sup;

And, closely puzzled to agree,

Chatter like gossips over tea.

The gander with his scarlet nose

When strife's at height will interpose;

And, stretching neck to that and this,

With now a mutter, now a hiss,

A nibble at the feathers too,

A sort of "pray be quiet do,"

And turning as the matter mends,

He stills them into mutual friends;

Then in a sort of triumph sings

And throws the water oer his wings.

Ah, could I see a spinney nigh,

A puddock riding in the sky

Above the oaks with easy sail

On stilly wings and forked tail,

Or meet a heath of furze in flower,

I might enjoy a quiet hour,

Sit down at rest, and walk at ease,

And find a many things to please.

But here my fancy's moods admire

The naked levels till they tire,

Nor een a molehill cushion meet

To rest on when I want a seat.

Here's little save the river scene

And grounds of oats in rustling green

And crowded growth of wheat and beans,

That with the hope of plenty leans

And cheers the farmer's gazing brow,

Who lives and triumphs in the plough--

One sometimes meets a pleasant sward

Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred

The plough soon turns it into brown,

And, when again one rambles down

The path, small hillocks burning lie

And smoke beneath a burning sky.

Green paddocks have but little charms

With gain the merchandise of farms;

And, muse and marvel where we may,

Gain mars the landscape every day--

The meadow grass turned up and copt,

The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt,

The hearth with fuel to supply

For rest to smoke and chatter bye;

Giving the joy of home delights,

The warmest mirth on coldest nights.

And so for gain, that joy's repay,

Change cheats the landscape every day,

Nor trees nor bush about it grows

That from the hatchet can repose,

And the horizon stooping smiles

Oer treeless fens of many miles.

Spring comes and goes and comes again

And all is nakedness and fen.