Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed pot.
Fire burn and cauldron bubble...
A farm-house that is sheltered by its wall,
An acre of stony ground,
Where the symbolic rose can break in flower,
Old ragged elms, old thorns innumerable,
The sound of the rain or sound
Of every wind that blows,
The stilted water-hen
That plunged in stream again
Scarred by the splashing of a hundred cows.
This winding, gyring, spiring treadmill of a stair is my ancestral stair;
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.
From markets and from fairs
Have seen his midnight candle glimmering.
The river rises and sinks again;
One hears the rumble of far below
Under its rocky hole.
What Median, Persian, Babylonian
In reverie, or in vision, saw
Symbols of the soul.”
Wanted to know what the River knew,
Twenty Bridges or twenty-two,
For they were young, and the Thames was old
And this is the tale that River told:”
― Rudyard Kipling