David Gray
O deep unlovely brooklet, moaning slow
Through moorish fen in utter loneliness !
The partridge cowers beside thy loamy flow
In pulseful tremor, when with sudden press
The huntsman fluskers though the rustled heather.
In March thy sallow-buds from vermeil shells
Break satin-tinted, downy as the feather
Of moss-chat that among the purplish bells
Breasts into fresh n e w life her three unborn.
The plover hovers o'er thee, uttering clear
And mourful — strange, his human cry forlorn :
While wearily, alone, and void of cheer
Thou guid'st thy nameless waters from the fen,
o sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen.