Overlooking The River Stour

The swallows flew in the curves of an eight      Above the river-gleam      In the wet June's last beam:     Like little crossbows animate     The swallows flew in the curves of an eight      Above the river-gleam.     Planing up shavings of crystal spray      A moor-hen darted out      From the bank thereabout,     And through the stream-shine ripped his way;     Planing up shavings of crystal spray      A moor-hen darted out.     Closed were the kingcups; and the mead      Dripped in monotonous green,      Though the day's morning sheen     Had shown it golden and honeybee'd;     Closed were the kingcups; and the mead      Dripped in monotonous green.     And never I turned my head, alack,      While these things met my gaze      Through the pane's drop-drenched glaze,     To see the more behind my back . . .     O never I turned, but let, alack,      These less things hold my gaze!