Page:Poems of nature, Thoreau, 1895.djvu/71

Rh And she that in the summer's drought

Doth make a rippling and a rout,

Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff,

Unruffled by a single skiff.

But by a thousand distant hills

The louder roar a thousand rills,

And many a spring which now is dumb,

And many a stream with smothered hum,

Doth swifter well and faster glide,

Though buried deep beneath the tide.

Our village shows a rural Venice,

Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is;

As lovely as the Bay of Naples

Yon placid cove amid the maples;

And in my neighbour's field of corn

I recognise the Golden Horn.