The Green Bowl

This little bowl is like a mossy pool

In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow

Nodding in chequered sunshine of trees;

A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,

Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song

And murmur of the never resting sea.

'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,

But coming Spring

Guided your eager hand

And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,

A proper chalice made to hold the shy

Flowers…

They will forget their sad uprooting, lost

In pleasure that this circle of leaves

Should be their setting; once more they'll dream

They hear winds wandering through lofty trees

And see the sun smiling

And see the sun smiling

between the leaves.