High on the bank the tall trees idly dream,
Bough and green leaf against an infinite sky,
And fleck with sun and shade the dappled stream
Soft flowing by.

A cool wind breaths across the peaceful scene,
Sweet with subtle scent of new-mown hay:
And far behind the fertile stretch of green
Fades into grey.

Look - there a trout rose in yon silent pool,
With leap and splash, and gleam of silver side,
Where in the shadow, clear and dark and cool,
Deep waters glide.

First a white breadth of shingle - then a height
Of tree on tree piled up to meet the sky,
Behind, blue hills, a haze of purple light,
In slumber lie.

O joy! To hear some skylark's carol strong
Sweet-blended with the river's murmuring -
To lie and listen to the pleasant song
The waters sing.

And far from here perchance we oft may dream,
When in the town November's skies are grey,
Of long hours spent beside the flowing stream
This summer's day.