Bramble-Hill / William Allingham

Bramble-Hill

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 (1824-1889)
from Blackberries picked off many bushes, 1884

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

William Allingham biography