Along the road to Ronda
Grow rosemary and thyme,
And trails of periwinkle
Among the brambles climb;
But ’tis the broom the paths along
That lifts the traveller’s heart to song.
The broom its royal treasure
Spills lavish, far and wide,
No stone but has its banner
Of cloth-of-gold beside,
No weed but bears its nodding plume,
Its careless bravery of bloom.
The purple spears of lavender
Smell sweet as charity,
And amaryllis blossoms
By grey-flowered rosemary;
It’s worth a year of suffering
To walk the Ronda road in spring.
There grows a gallant army
Of blossoms great and small
Along the road to Ronda—
The broom is lord of all.
O fair and fair and wonder-fair,
Spilt like the sunshine everywhere!
THE MOON AND THE MORNING
The moon is riding high, the stars are shining
But very palely, through the clear blue light;
The plain is empty, and the circling mountains
Rise cold and far through swathes of mist to-night.
There is no wind astir, the serried rushes
Stand straight as lances round the glassed lagoon;
Within still waters grows a single lily,
A great white flower of solitude, the moon.
My shadow that seemed taller than the mountains
Lies gathered at my feet, a pool of ink,
And as I move towards the sombre reed-beds
I watch it spill and trickle, spread and shrink.
Here in the moon-blanched pasture wide and silent
With no voice waking and no foot astir
Save mine, the lovely sleeping night surrounds me
And naught is real save the thought of her.