AT noon, within the dusty town,
Where the wild river
rushes down,
And thunders hoarsely all day long,
I
think of thee, my hermit stream,
Low singing in thy
summer dream,
Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song.
Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile
Looms through thy
low, long, leafy aisle;
Eastward, Olamon's summit shines;
And I upon thy grassy shore,
The dreamful, happy child of
yore,
Worship before mine olden shrines.
Again the
sultry noontide hush
Is sweetly broken by the thrush,
Beside thy banks, in coverts deep,
Where nodding buds of
orchis sleep
In dusk, and dream not it is day.
Again the wild cow-lily floats
Her golden-freighted,
tented boats,
In thy cool coves of softened gloom,
O'ershadowed by the whispering reed,
And purple plumes of
pickerel-weed,
And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom.
The startled minnows dart in flocks
Beneath thy
glimmering amber rocks,
If but a zephyr stirs the brake;
The silent swallow swoops, a flash
Of light, and leaves,
with dainty plash,
A ring of ripples in her wake.
Without, the land is hot and dim;
The level fields in
languor swim,
Their stubble-grasses brown as dust;
And
all along the upland lanes,
Where shadeless noon
oppressive reigns,
Dead roses wear their crowns of rust.
Within, is neither blight nor death,
The fierce sun
wooes with ardent breath,
But cannot win thy sylvan
heart.
Only the child who loves thee long,
With
faithful worship pure and strong,
Can know how dear and
sweet thou art.
So loved I thee in days gone by,
So love I yet, though leagues may lie
Between us, and the
years divide;�
A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew,�
A
joy forever fresh and true,
Thy memory doth with me
abide. |
