Page:Poems (Bryant, 1821).djvu/43



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

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 coloured pebbles, and sparkles of light,

And clear the depths where the 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,

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;