Shapes and Shadows — The Rock

THE ROCK.

Here, at its base, in dingled deeps Of spice-bush, where the ivy creeps, The cold spring scoops its hollow;

And there three mossy stepping-stones Make ripple murmurs; undertones Of foam that blend and follow With voices of the wood that drones.

The quail pipes here when noons are hot;

And here, in coolness sunlight-shot Beneath a roof of briers, The red-fox skulks at close of day;

And here at night, the shadows gray Stand like FRANCISCAN friars, With moonbeam beads whereon they pray.

Here yawns the ground-hog's dark-dug hole;

And there the tunnel of the mole Heaves under weed and flower;

A sandy pit-fall here and there The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair;

And here, for sun and shower, The spider weaves a silvery snare.

The poison-oak's rank tendrils twine The rock's south side; the trumpet-vine, With crimson bugles sprinkled, Makes green its eastern side; the west Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed Into an angle wrinkled, The hornets hang an oblong nest.

The north is hid from sun and star, And here,--like an Inquisitor Of Faery Inquisition, That roots out Elf-land heresy,-- Deep in the rock, with mystery Cowled for his grave commission, The Owl sits magisterially.