To fairies couched on bubbles round the pool

This is the River Parrett; it enters the sea at Bridgwater, but here it is, flooded at Langport

An isle of trees full foliaged in a meadow,
Along whose quiet grassy shores below
The white sheep bathe in level lengths of shadow,
And sweet airs amiable as summer blow
Warmly and faint among the happy leaves,
Loving each other in a green repose
Folded; or waking in the slumbrous glow
Where the wind passing, indolently weaves
A net of lazy listless whisperings,
Most like the liquid lullaby of springs
Pulsing demure and quaintly in some cool
Dell of the woods; unseen save of some ray
Piercing the boughs, having somewhat to say
To fairies couched on bubbles round the pool.

Thomas Caulfield Irwin

4 thoughts on “To fairies couched on bubbles round the pool

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