The Rock

Here, at its base, in dingled deeps Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps, The cold spring scoops its hollow; And there, three mossy stepping-stones Make ripple murmurs; undertones Of foam, whose low falls follow A voice far in the wood that drones.

The quail pipes here when noons are hot; And here, in coolness sunlight-shot, Beneath a roof of briers, The red fox skulks at close of day; And here, at night, the shadows gray Stand like Franciscan friars, With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.

Here yawns the woodchuck’s dark-dug hole; And there the tunnel of the mole Heaves under weed and flower; A sandy pit-fall here and there The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair And here, for sun and shower, The spider weaves a silvery snare.

The poison-oak’s rank tendrils twine The rock’s south side; the trumpet-vine, With crimson bugles sprinkled, Makes green its eastern side; the west Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed Into an angle wrinkled, The hornets hang an oblong nest.

The north is hid from sun and star, And here,--like an Inquisitor Of Faëry Inquisition, Who roots out Elfland heresy,-- Deep in the rock, cowled shadowy And grave as his commission, The owl sits magisterially.