Weary of this town of peopled pain I set my path towards the country plain to wander there, to gaze, to think alone to hear again the woodland's drone
Lost in meadow, field and glade I sought the calm of dappled shade Sometime, I crossed a log-made bridge Or, viewed a valley from fir-toothed ridge
So still the air - I heard the bluebell's ****** and caught a hidden thrush's eye atwinkle as from thorn hedged cover with a thrill silence welcomed its quavering trill.
Half across an old wind-weathered stile I paused to gaze upon the scene awhile: "Who could have made this?" Was my thought. "What breath breathed this? What hands this wrought?"
Before me stretched a wonderous natural land un designed by humankind - some primordial hand Who once this world's existence stipulated then taking elements, atoms, molecules them manipulated.
Into myriad mists of time has humankind dissolved bearing a triple question unresolved: How did We come? Why? Where Goest We? If I knew the answers - would few believe me?
Called by larks from thoughts of life's meaning I saw a sparkling brook down a valley streaming Silvery-voiced it beckoned - come and slake your thirst, come quaff amid my bubbling wake.
I, deep in the babbling water's bottom spied a bright round pebble washed and pied: it invited - perchance you'll take me to London in a place called Stepney.
In my boiling mouth it found a place cooling the bulge it made upon my face. Refreshed in spirit - I made my homeward way pebble-tongued across the new mown hay.
Tobias.
I wrote this long poem attempting a Tennysonian tone and tempo similar to that he achieved in his poem _ The Brook - adding, I hoped, a Swinburnian swing. There is still another 20 completed stanza...