Upon a Norfolk Broad
The river flows, a slow and silent guide,
Through marshy plains and meadows, stretching far,
Where flat-bottomed boats may gently glide,
Beneath the gaze of evening’s lonely star.
I stood beside the water, dark and deep,
Whose placid surface, like a sheet of glass,
Held the vast sky in its eternal sleep,
And watched the solitary heron pass.
Yon windmill, sentinel of marsh and fen,
Whose idle sails now greet the passing cloud,
Hath watched the quiet lives of passing men,
And stands against the sky, serene and proud.
It speaks of toil, of hands that worked the land,
To drain the flood and hold the fen at bay,
A lonely monument, by breezes fanned,
That measures out the long and tranquil day.
The only sound, the whisper of the reed,
The bittern’s boom that echoes from the haze,
On such a sight the hungry soul may feed,
And lose the count of all its hurried days.
No clamour here of crowded, dusty street,
But peace the heart can in this silence find,
A quiet joy, both solemn and complete,
A balm to soothe the agitated mind.
And oft, when I in busy rooms shall be,
Or troubled by the world’s discordant sound,
This tranquil scene shall rise in memory:
The endless sky, the water’s still profound.
And then my heart with quiet pleasure fills,
And feels again the wind across the mere,
A presence that the restless spirit stills,
And makes the simplest blade of grass feel dear.