The Evenlode
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 : The Frog
- Hilaire Belloc : The Hippopotamus
- Hilaire Belloc : The Lion
- Hilaire Belloc : The Marmozet
- Hilaire Belloc : The Microbe
- Hilaire Belloc : The Night
- Hilaire Belloc : The Pacifist
- Hilaire Belloc : The Pelagian Drinking Song
- Hilaire Belloc : The Scorpion
- Hilaire Belloc : The South Country
Previous 10 Poems
- Hilaire Belloc : The Elephant
- Hilaire Belloc : The Early Morning
- Hilaire Belloc : The Dromedary
- Hilaire Belloc : The Death And Last Confession Of Wandering Peter
- Hilaire Belloc : The Catholic Sun
- Hilaire Belloc : The Birds
- Hilaire Belloc : The Big Baboon
- Hilaire Belloc : Tarantella
- Hilaire Belloc : Talking ( And Singing ) Of The Nordic Man
- Hilaire Belloc : South Country, The