No sounds are heard from Yarrow Vale,
But summer sounds to-day;
The Yarrow whispers forth his tale,
And sweeps and glides away.
The sunshine falls, and through the leaves
A dainty light doth pass,
That, falling, like a fairy weaves
Lithe shadows on the grass.
Against the sky the hills are thrown,
They shimmer in the heat,
Green footstools for the clouds whereon
To set their fleecy feet.
The lark has lost himself in mirth,
He never looks around;
But, half in heaven, pours down to earth
An ecstasy of sound.
The winds have laid them down to dream
In hollows long and deep;
As if they thought of Yarrow stream,
And murmured in their sleep.
I, too, perforce, must take the tone
And colour of the hour,
And dream my day-dream all alone
By Newark's Border Tower.
But not of feuds, or midnight wrong
Done in the long ago,
When hearts were rough and arms were strong
For either friend or foe.
I only think how sweet to reap
This day of sunny gleams;
And hear the Yarrow, half-asleep,
Make music to my dreams.