Where water-grass grows overgreen
On damp cool flats by gentle streams,
Still as a ghost and sad of mien,
With half-closed eyes the heron dreams.
Above him in the sycamore
The flicker beats a dull tattoo;
Through pawpaw groves the soft airs pour
Gold dust of blooms and fragrance new.
And from the thorn it loves so well,
The oriole flings out its strong,
Sharp lay, wrought in the crucible
Of its flame-circled soul of song.
The heron nods. The charming runes
Of Nature's music thrill his dreams;
The joys of many Mays and Junes
Wash past him like cool summer streams.
What tranquil life, what joyful rest,
To feel the touch of fragrant grass,
And doze like him, while tenderest
Dream-waves across my sleep would pass!