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| ONE of Indian summer’s most perfect days | |
| Is dreamily dying in golden haze; | |
| Fair Assabet blushes in rosy bliss, | |
| Reflecting the sun’s warm good-night kiss. | |
| Through a fleet of leaf-barques gold and brown | 5 |
| From the radiant maples shaken down, | |
| By the ancient hemlocks grim and gray, | |
| Our boat drifts slowly on its way; | |
| Down past Egg Rock and the meadows wide, | |
| ’Neath the old red bridge we slowly glide, | 10 |
| Till we see the Minute-man strong and grand, | |
| And the moss-grown manse in the orchard land. | |
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| The boat is as full as a boat should be, | |
| Just nobody in it but you and me. | |
| As brown as the leaves are her beautiful eyes, | 15 |
| And as graceful her hand on the water lies | |
| As she catches the leaves which languid float | |
| On the lazy current along the boat. | |
| Now she asks its name as she tears one apart— | |
| “Fair lady, that is a ‘floating heart.’” | 20 |
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| Sad wrecks of years have drifted down | |
| In the dreamless ocean to sink and drown, | |
| Since the beautiful eyes saw that lovely night | |
| And haloed the river with visions bright; | |
| But the floating heart that was caught that day | 25 |
| Has never been able to get away. | |
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