[C. H. Winter]
These things I love—
A mountain etched against a sunset sky,
Waves tied with silver ribbons of moonlight;
Cloud galleons on fleecy wings above
Slow sailing over;
A wild bird's vespers when the drowsy land
Is carpeted with dusk; red blooms and white
Of tangled clover;
Star-dappled streams, the feathered phalanx high
With night at hand.
My treasures these.
And, knowing them, comes no beatitude
Of spirit in the ordered works that make
A city, with its graven artistries
Of man's endeavour.
For I have walked by wave-wet rocks, have seen
The rising sun his jewelled arrows shake
On sun and river;
Have known the glory of the waking wood
When night has been.