37
The flowers of summer are fairest there,
And freshest the breath of the summer air,
And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat
To bathe in those waters so pure and sweet.
Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunn’st to glide,
Beautiful stream! by the village side,
But windest away from haunts of men,
To silent valley, and shaded glen.
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill,
Around thee, are lonely, lovely and still.
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,
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, gushing out
With mellow murmur, or fairy shout,
From dawn to the blush of another day,
