The Pond

Gray were the rushes     Beside the budless bushes,     Green-patched the pond.     The lark had left soaring     Though yet the sun was pouring     His gold here and beyond.     Bramble-branches held me,     But had they not compelled me     Yet had I lingered there     Hearing the frogs and then     Watching the water-hen     That stared back at my stare.     There amid the bushes     Were blackbird's nests and thrush's,     Soon to be hidden     In leaves on green leaves thickening,     Boughs over long boughs quickening     Swiftly, unforbidden.     The lark had left singing     But song all round was ringing,     As though the rushes     Were sighingly repeating     And mingling that most sweet thing     With the sweet note of thrushes.     That sweetness rose all round me,     But more than sweetness bound me,     A spirit stirred;     Shadowy and cold it neared me,     Then shrank as if it feared me--     But 'twas I that feared.