Saturday, June 8, 2013

Bramble-Hill / William Allingham


Not much to find, not much to see,
But the air is fresh, the path is free
On a lonely Hill where bramble grows
In tangling clumps, and the brooklet flows
Around its feet with whispering.
     Leaf-tufted are the vines in Spring;
The goldfinch builds, the hare has her form;
And when the nightless days are warm,
When grass grows high and small flowers peep,
Far and wide the trailers sweep
Their pinky silver blossoms, which
Are braided with a delicate stitch.
     The berries swell with Autumn's power;
Some are red and green and sour,
Some are black and juicy to bite,
Some have a maggot, some a blight.
Then frost-nipt leaves hang rusty and tatter'd,
With sleet and hail the bushes are batter'd,
A thorny brake on the barren hill,
Where the whistling blast blows chill.
But under the snow, amid the dark,
Sleeping waits the vernal spark.
    I had neither garden nor park.
On Bramble-Hill, by brake and stone,
Many a season I wandered lone,
With laughter, and pray'r, and singing, and moan;
In gray mist and in golden light,
Under the dawn and the starry night.
Not much to find, not much to see,
But the air was fresh, the path was free.

William Allingham
from Blackberries picked off many bushes, 1884

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Allingham biography

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