| |
| WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, | |
| I steal an hour from study and care, | |
| And hie me away to the woodland scene, | |
| Where wanders the stream with waters of green, | |
| As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink | 5 |
| Had given their stain to the wave they drink; | |
| And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, | |
| Have named the stream from its own fair hue. | |
| |
| Yet pure its waters,—its shallows are bright | |
| With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, | 10 |
| And clear the depths where its eddies play, | |
| And dimples deepen and whirl away, | |
| And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot | |
| The swifter current that mines its root, | |
| Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, | 15 |
| The quivering glimmer of sun and rill | |
| With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, | |
| Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. | |
| Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, | |
| With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees’ hum; | 20 |
| The flowers of summer are fairest there, | |
| And freshest the breath of the summer air; | |
| And sweetest the golden autumn day | |
| In silence and sunshine glides away. | |
| |
| Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, | 25 |
| Beautiful stream! by the village side; | |
| But windest away from haunts of men, | |
| To quiet valley and shaded glen; | |
| And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, | |
| Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. | 30 |
| Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, | |
| From thicket to thicket the angler glides; | |
| Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, | |
| For herbs of power on thy banks to look; | |
| Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, | 35 |
| To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. | |
| Still, save the chirp of birds that feed | |
| On the river cherry and seedy reed, | |
| And thy own wild music gashing out | |
| With mellow murmur or fairy shout, | 40 |
| From dawn to the blush of another day, | |
| Like traveller singing along his way. | |
| |
| That fairy music I never hear, | |
| Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, | |
| And mark them winding away from sight, | 45 |
| Darkened with shade or flashing with light, | |
| While o’er them the vine to its thicket clings, | |
| And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, | |
| But I wish that fate had left me free | |
| To wander these quiet haunts with thee, | 50 |
| Till the eating cares of earth should depart, | |
| And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; | |
| And I envy thy stream, as it glides along, | |
| Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song. | |
| |
| Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, | 55 |
| And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, | |
| And mingle among the jostling crowd, | |
| Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud,— | |
| I often come to this quiet place, | |
| To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, | 60 |
| And gaze upon thee in silent dream, | |
| For in thy lonely and lovely stream | |
| An image of that calm life appears | |
| That won my heart in my greener years. | |
| |
