What as a gurgling softly simmered through
The soil, within the dead deserted brake,
--And no more than a drop of fragrant dew
That fell from flowerlet unto deepest lake:
Becomes the clinging mist that cleaves the heights,
And which in darkest as a beam
The heart of the chasm suddenly be-smites
To spring and ramble like a ruddy stream.
The soil, within the dead deserted brake,
--And no more than a drop of fragrant dew
That fell from flowerlet unto deepest lake:
Becomes the clinging mist that cleaves the heights,
And which in darkest as a beam
The heart of the chasm suddenly be-smites
To spring and ramble like a ruddy stream.
Stefan George - Selections from His Works and Others
