Epithalamion

Hark, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe     We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood     Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood,     Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,     That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown     Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between     Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and water- blowballs, down.     We are there, when we hear a shout     That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover     Makes dither, makes hover     And the riot of a rout     Of, it must be, boys from the town     Bathing: it is summer's sovereign good.     By there comes a listless stranger: beckoned by the noise     He drops towards the river: unseen     Sees the bevy of them, how the boys     With dare and with downdolphinry and bellbright bodies hud- dling out,     Are earthworld, airworld, waterworld thorough hurled, all by turn and turn about.     This garland of their gambols flashes in his breast     Into such a sudden zest     Of summertime joys     That he hies to a pool neighbouring; sees it is the best     There; sweetest, freshest, shadowiest;     Fairyland; silk-beech, scrolled ash, packed sycamore, wild wychelm, hornbeam fretty overstood     By. Rafts and rafts of flake-leaves light, dealt so, painted on the air,     Hang as still as hawk or hawkmoth, as the stars or as the angels there,     Like the thing that never knew the earth, never off roots     Rose. Here he feasts: lovely all is! No more: off with -    down he dings     His bleachd both and woolwoven wear:     Careless these in coloured wisp     All lie tumbled-to; then with loop-locks     Forward falling, forehead frowning, lips crisp     Over finger-teasing task, his twiny boots     Fast he opens, last he offwrings     Till walk the world he can with bare his feet     And come where lies a coffer, burly all of blocks     Built of chancequarrid, selfquaind rocks     And the water warbles over into, filleted with glassy grassy quicksilvery shivs and shoots     And with heavenfallen freshness down from moorland still brims,     Dark or daylight on and on. Here he will then, here he will the fleet     Flinty kindcold element let break across his limbs     Long. Where we leave him, froliclavish while he looks about him, laughs, swims.     Enough now; since the sacred matter that I mean     I should be wronging longer leaving it to float     Upon this only gambolling and echoing-of-earth note -     What is ... the delightful dene?     Wedlock. What the water? Spousal love.     .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .     .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .     Father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends     Into fairy trees, wild flowers, wood ferns     Rankd round the bower     .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .