The lilies are languid, the aspens quiver,

The Sun-God shooteth his shafts of light,

The ripples are wroth with the restless river;

And O for the wash of the weir at night!

The soul of the poet within him blenches

At thought of plunge in the water bright,

To witness the loves of the tender tenches:

And O for the wash of the weir at night!

The throstle is wooing within the thicket,

The fair frog fainteth in love's affright;

The maiden is waiting to ope the wicket;

And O for the wash of the weir at night!

The bargeman he knoweth where Marlow Bridge is.

To pies of puppy he doth invite;

The cow chews the cud on the pasture ridges;

And O for the wash of the weir at night!

So far from the roar of the seething city,

The poet reposes much too quite,

He trills to the Thames in a dainty ditty;

And O for the wash of the weir at night!