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Poem by Violet Jacob


At a Brookside


A RUNNING melody is in the noon
Of grass-bound rivulet and tangled showers,
Of sunlight, glancing through the cuckoo flowers
To mingle golden ripples with the tune;
In the wide light my senses seem to swoon,
Drugged by the monotone of rhythmic hours
And voice of spring-fed rivulet that dowers
The winding meadow-land with music's boon.

Caught in a shimmering net of sight and sound,
And drawn, I know not wither, yet aware
Am I of some soft touch, and, blown around
My face, the plentitude of waving hair--
Nay, let me lie and dream this wondrous thing;
My hand, one moment, held the hand of spring!



                      Violet Jacob


Violet Jacob's other poems:
  1. The Kirk Beside the Sands
  2. Presage
  3. Unity
  4. Hallowe'en


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