A Bog-Filled Valley

Sick little valley, meted out for sadness, Bent thorn-trees sparsely above your brown floods rise, Brimming full your streams are, brimming full, yet holding Little joyous commerce with the sun and skies.

Sadly in the night-time the moon, besieged by shadows, Over your dark hollows holds her pallid court; Scarce an evening flower lighting for her pleasure, Scarce a silvery ripple dancing for her sport.

Yet, oh little valley, little bog-filled valley, I, who linger near you, grieving turn to part, In your bareness finding, in your sadness seeing, Something very tender, very near my heart.

Turning with reluctance, often I look backwards, Seeing, feeling, counting what hath been before, Finding in your bareness, seeing in your sadness, That which, going elsewhere, I shall find no more.