Moss on a Wall

Dim dreams it hath of singing ways,     Of far-off woodland water-heads,     And shining ends of April days     Amongst the yellow runnel-beds.     Stoop closer to the ruined wall,     Whereon the wilful wilding sleeps,     As if its home were waterfall     By dripping clefts and shadowy steeps.     A little waif, whose beauty takes     A touching tone because it dwells     So far away from mountain lakes,     And lily leaves, and lightening fells.     Deep hidden in delicious floss     It nestles, sister, from the heat     A gracious growth of tender moss     Whose nights are soft, whose days are sweet.     Swift gleams across its petals run     With winds that hum a pleasant tune,     Serene surprises of the sun,     And whispers from the lips of noon.     The evening-coloured apple-trees     Are faint with Julys frosty breath.     But lo! this stranger getteth ease,     And shines amidst the strays of Death.     And at the turning of the year,     When August wanders in the cold,     The raiment of the nursling here     Is rich with green and glad with gold.     Oh, friend of mine, to one whose eyes     Are vexed because of alien things,     For ever in the wall moss lies     The peace of hills and hidden springs.     From faithless lips and fickle lights     The tired pilgrim sets his face,     And thinketh here of sounds and sights     In many a lovely forest-place.     And when by sudden fits and starts     The sunset on the moss doth burn,     He often dreams, and, lo! the marts     And streets are changed to dells of fern.     For, let me say, the wilding placed     By hands unseen amongst these stones,     Restores a Past by Time effaced,     Lost loves and long-forgotten tones!     As sometimes songs and scenes of old     Come faintly unto you and me,     When winds are wailing in the cold,     And rains are sobbing on the sea.