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Of some low skimming swallow shakes bright spray Forth to the sunshine from its dimpled wave; Now, from some pool of crystal darkness deep, The trout springs upward, with a showery gleam And plashing sound of waters. What swift rings Of mazy insects o'er the shallow tide Seem, as they glance, to scatter sparks of light From burnished films! And mark yon silvery line Of gossamer, so tremulously hung Across the narrow current, from the tuft Of hazels to the hoary poplar's bough! See, in the air's transparence, how it waves, Quivering and glistening with each faintest gale, Yet breaking not—a bridge for fairy shapes, How delicate, how wondrous! Yes, my boy! Well may we make the stream's bright winding vein Our woodland guide, for He who made the stream Made it a clue to haunts of loveliness, For ever deepening. O, forget him not,