Evenlode, The
Hilaire Belloc
I will not try to reach again, I will not set my sail alone, To moor a boat bereft of men At Yarnton's tiny docks of stone. But I will sit beside the fire, And put my hand before my eyes, And trace, to fill my heart's desire, The last of all our Odysseys. The quiet evening kept her tryst: Beneath an open sky we rode, And passed into a wandering mist Along the perfect Evenlode. The tender Evenlode that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the brakes, And binds my heart to English ground. A lovely river, all alone, She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stone, Forgotten in the western wolds.
Next 10 Poems
- Hilaire Belloc : Franklin Hyde
- Hilaire Belloc : Frog, The
- Hilaire Belloc : George
- Hilaire Belloc : Godolphin Horne
- Hilaire Belloc : Ha'nacker Mill
- Hilaire Belloc : Henry King
- Hilaire Belloc : Heretics All
- Hilaire Belloc : Heroic Poem In Praise Of Wine
- Hilaire Belloc : Hildebrand
- Hilaire Belloc : Hippopotamus, The
Previous 10 Poems
- Hilaire Belloc : Elephant, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Early Morning, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Dromedary, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Drinking Song, On The Excellence Of Burgundy Wine
- Hilaire Belloc : Charles Augustus Fortescue
- Hilaire Belloc : Catholic Sun, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Birds, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Big Baboon, The
- Hilaire Belloc : Because My Faltering Feet
- Hilaire Belloc : Ballade To Our Lady Of Czestochowa