The Wye

The Wye (Near Monmouth)

A land of hills and woods and yew-crowned rocks, All scarred and furrowed by primeval flood; With many a bastion, grim and bare, which mocks The anger of the storm-god's fiercest mood. Above, the oak stands as it long has stood Through winter's tempests; and, adown, the green, The rich dark green of ivy that has wooed The time-worn limestone, trails; and all between The rifts and sheltered nooks, the fern's chaste form is seen.

Below, the slow, broad-curving river; here, The willows lie reflected in the stream, Placid and deep; and there, the noisy weir, Where tiny wavelets in the sunlight gleam. Hard by, a loiterer, lying in a dream Upon the bank: far off, a bare hillside; And farther, boundless forest growths which seem Most solemn and most calm, as far and wide They stretch majestic arms, in all their summer pride.