David Gray (1838–1861)

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 through 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 new life her three unborn.

The plover hovers o’er thee, uttering clear

And mournful-strange his human cry forlorn.

While wearily, alone, and void of cheer

Thou guid’st thy nameless waters from the fen,

To sleep unsunned in an untrampled glen.