Erskine

A singing voice is in my dream     The voice of Erskine, on his boulders,     Babbling and shouting till he shoulders     Stoutly against the heavier stream.     No longer now my curtained sight,     On serried books and pictures dwelling,     Of long-neglected work is telling,     But looks beyond the travelling night.     And here no longer is my home,     For you and I are far asunder:     I hear again the cascade thunder     And watch the little pool of foam.     And where the water, pouring sleek,     In sudden whiteness flings his treasure,     I see you sitting, Queen of Pleasure,     Clad only by the glittering creek.     I hold my arms to you once more,     For O my longing flesh is aching,     And you, your rocky throne forsaking,     Come cool and radiant to the shore.     I see my girl of girls recline     On smooth rock sloping to the water;     Then savagely have leapt and caught her,     And limpid eyes look up at mine.     Love, Love, O Love, the embracing sun,     The trees, the creek, the earth our mother,     Who made that hour, give such another,     And make ussee usknow us one.