Brink.

 

To hunt birds' nests on summer morns,

So far my leisure seemed to run,

I've paused to wonder where I'd got

And thought I'd got beyond the sun;

It seemed to rise another way,

The very world's end seemed as near;

Some strange bush pointed where it lay,

So back I turned for very fear

With eager haste and wonder-struck,

Pursued as by a dreaded spell,

Till home—Oh, could I write a book,

I thought, what wonders I could tell!

And when again I left the town

To the world's end I thought I'd go

And o'er the brink just peep adown

To see the mighty depths below.

John Clare