The rushbeds touched the boiling spring
And dipped and bowed and dipped again
The nodding flower would wabbling hing
Till it could scarce get back again
How pleasant lay the daisey plain
How twisting sweet the woodbine grew
Around the white thorn in the lane
Bedecked with gems of droppled dew —


Here Bloomfield lay beside the brook
His memory haunts the silver flood
Musing upon the open book
In happy and poetic mood
His fancies left on every place
The landscape seems his waking dream
Where Hannah shewed her rosey face
" And leap't across the infant stream"


The rush tufts touched the boiling sand
Then wabbling nodded up anew
Then danced at every winds command
And dipped to peirce the water through
The twisted woodbine was in flower
And pale among the thorn leaves grew
Here Bloomfield rested many an hour
While bees they sipped the morning dew


The little spring it boiled away
And dancing rose the silver sand
For ever boiling night and day
And never made an idle stand
The wild flower nodded on the brink
And made its wrinkles on the stream
Where Bloomfield often lay to think
And listless spend his summer dream.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.