I KNOW a pool unknown to men,
Whose green and shadowed secrecy
I share alone with bird and tree,
And there, when I am sick at heart
And ill at ease, I draw apart
To bathe, and live, and love again.
All Summertide and all Spring through,
In its charmed neighbourhood, the thrush
And magpie, in the dying blush
Of sunset and the green of dawn —
Now nigh, and now in aisles withdrawn —
Make melody, each day anew.
And all night long the curious stars
Through peepholes in its dome of leaves
Peer down on it, while Silence weaves
A lovely spell, a magic calm
That soothes the soul like healing balm,
And breathes a peace that nothing mars.
Ah, sweet, indeed, it is to lave
And lose oneself within the cool,
Soft presence of that forest-pool,
Whose sacramental peace is such
That flesh and spirit, at its touch,
The sleep of little children have.