Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner

* * *

We cannot keep delight--we cannot tell
One tale of steady bliss, unwarped, uncrost,
The timid guest anticipates his farewell,
And will not stay to hear it from his host!
I saw a child upon a summer's day,
A child upon the margin of a pond,
Catch at the boughs that came within his way,
>From a fair fruit-tree on the bank beyond;
The gale that swayed them from him aye arose,
And seldom sank into such kindly calm
As gave his hand upon the bunch to close;
Which then but left its fragrance on his palm;
For the wind woke anew from its repose,
And bore the fruit away, but wafted all its balm.

1. The Rookery
2. East or West?
3. From Harvest to January
4. The Lion’s Skeleton
5. The Buoy-Bell

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