From the river’s plashy bank,
Where the sedge grows green and rank,
And the twisted woodbine springs,
Upward speeds the morning lark
To its silver cloud — and hark!
On his way the woodman sings.
On the dim and misty lakes
Gloriously the morning breaks,
And the eagle’s on his cloud:–
Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooes
To its arms the chaste cold ooze,
And the rustling reeds pipe loud.
Where the embracing ivy holds
Close the hoar elm in its folds,
In the meadow’s fenny land,
And the winding river sweeps
Through its shallows and still deeps,–
Silent with my rod I stand.
But when sultry suns are high
Underneath the oak I lie
As it shades the water’s edge,
And I mark my line, away
In the wheeling eddy, play,
Tangling with the river sedge.
When the eye of evening looks
On green woods and winding brooks,
And the wind sighs o’er the lea,–
Woods and streams,– I leave you then,
While the shadow in the glen
Lengthens by the greenwood tree.
