Dark is the mind’s deep dwelling,
Roofed and walled and floored
With ancient rock. There water, slowly welling
Or slowly dripped, is stored
In a dim, deep, dreaming pool
Unvexed by rain or sunlight or the cool
Wings of the wind, untroubled by joy or grieving
Or the bitterness and the ecstasy of living.
Till the white young bathers come, warily treading,
Lovely, desired, with rosy flesh
Like the apple-bloom on grey boughs spreading
In April, and their feet refresh
Like April the grey desert place.
For when with a sudden freakish grace
They break the pool’s long sleep in an airy flight
Of diving, the dim pool takes light,
Blooms to soft fire in a thousand tongues unfurling
That shed a shimmering beauty on roof and walls
And rouse in those stern halls
Laughing music of water, till the death
Of that dark underworld
Thrills harp-like with new ecstasy and the breath
Of a thousand buds uncurling.