Gushing down the weir, unwearied wave
Flings the quaint old mill a sparkling glance;
Hushing noise whirls round the sounding spell:
A glassy plain is spun like sorcery
To creamy lava, seething ivory.
Brighter than the foam, across the strait,
Gold, green, blazons sweep the falling time;
Lacery of crosses, veil immaculate,
Adorns for brides the convent’s final bed.
Trees of shadow sorrow overhead.
*
Silent mirror pools, so calmly clear,
Repeat a dream-blue heaven of liquid air;
Mosaic of floating catkin’s stippled curls
Frames the lofty poplars’ airy grace,
Garnet strands and amber twine embrace.
Casting off finesse of borrowed plumes,
Solemnly the river world reflects;
Inward looks, where creeping creatures grow;
Water powdered with applish tinted bloom
Throws galaxies about its native gloom.
Downstream spreads the verdant wing of death:
Stifling quilt of vivifying green;
Lonely, meditative rippling depths
Breathe in concert with the quiet sky;
Precious draughts the drowning realm supply.
Author's Note: 'La Petite Maine' is a tributary to the Maine in the Vendée, France.
In the low laying land where I knew it, in summer the flow of the river would lessen until in certain stretches it seemed to stand still and a bright green veil of weed spread over its surface until the level rose and the stream grew active again. This is what is referred to in the final stanza.