The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge,     I love to rustle through the sedge     And through the woods of reed to tear     Almost as high as bushes are.     Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,     As danger ever does from ill,     Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,     While plop the snake coils in the flood     And, hissing with a forked tongue,     Across the river winds along.     In coat of orange, green, and blue     Now on a willow branch I view,     Grey waving to the sunny gleam,     Kingfishers watch the ripple stream     For little fish that nimble bye     And in the gravel shallows lie.     Eddies run before the boats,     Gurgling where the fisher floats,     Who takes advantage of the gale     And hoists his handkerchief for sail     On osier twigs that form a mast--     While idly lies, nor wanted more,     The spirit that pushed him on before.     There's not a hill in all the view,     Save that a forked cloud or two     Upon the verge of distance lies     And into mountains cheats the eyes.     And as to trees the willows wear     Lopped heads as high as bushes are;     Some taller things the distance shrouds     That may be trees or stacks or clouds     Or may be nothing; still they wear     A semblance where there's nought to spare.     Among the tawny tasselled reed     The ducks and ducklings float and feed.     With head oft dabbing in the flood     They fish all day the weedy mud,     And tumbler-like are bobbing there,     Heels topsy turvy in the air.     The geese in troops come droving up,     Nibble the weeds, and take a sup;     And, closely puzzled to agree,     Chatter like gossips over tea.     The gander with his scarlet nose     When strife's at height will interpose;     And, stretching neck to that and this,     With now a mutter, now a hiss,     A nibble at the feathers too,     A sort of "pray be quiet do,"     And turning as the matter mends,     He stills them into mutual friends;     Then in a sort of triumph sings     And throws the water oer his wings.     Ah, could I see a spinney nigh,     A puddock riding in the sky     Above the oaks with easy sail     On stilly wings and forked tail,     Or meet a heath of furze in flower,     I might enjoy a quiet hour,     Sit down at rest, and walk at ease,     And find a many things to please.     But here my fancy's moods admire     The naked levels till they tire,     Nor een a molehill cushion meet     To rest on when I want a seat.     Here's little save the river scene     And grounds of oats in rustling green     And crowded growth of wheat and beans,     That with the hope of plenty leans     And cheers the farmer's gazing brow,     Who lives and triumphs in the plough--     One sometimes meets a pleasant sward     Of swarthy grass; and quickly marred     The plough soon turns it into brown,     And, when again one rambles down     The path, small hillocks burning lie     And smoke beneath a burning sky.     Green paddocks have but little charms     With gain the merchandise of farms;     And, muse and marvel where we may,     Gain mars the landscape every day--     The meadow grass turned up and copt,     The trees to stumpy dotterels lopt,     The hearth with fuel to supply     For rest to smoke and chatter bye;     Giving the joy of home delights,     The warmest mirth on coldest nights.     And so for gain, that joy's repay,     Change cheats the landscape every day,     Nor trees nor bush about it grows     That from the hatchet can repose,     And the horizon stooping smiles     Oer treeless fens of many miles.     Spring comes and goes and comes again     And all is nakedness and fen.