From Lynton when you drive to Porlock, Just take old Tempus by the forelock -- In any case, don't hurry; time and tide -- Of course -- I know. But, where the roads divide, Upon the moor, Be sure To shun the @3via dextra@1, And choose the marvellous ride (One half-hour extra) That zigzags to a gate Nigh Porlock town -- O, it is great, That strip of Channel sea, Backed with the prime of English Arcady! It is not that the heather rushes In mad tumultuous flushes (@3Trickling@1's the word I'd use); But O, the greens and blues And browns whereon the crimson dwells; The buds, the bells; The drop from arch to arch Of pine and larch; The scented glooms where soft sun-fainting culvers Elude the eye, And fox-gloves, like innumerous-celled revolvers Shoot honey-tongued quintessence of July! |