  A stream of tender gladness, Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies; Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies In mystic rings, Where softly swings The music of a thousand wings That almost tone to sadness. Midway twixt earth and heaven, A bubble in the pearly air, I seem To float upon the sapphire floor, a dream Of clouds of snow, Above, below, Drift with my drifting, dim and slow, As twilight drifts to even. The little fern-leaf, bending Upon the brink, its green reflection greets, And kisses soft the shadow that it meets The border line The keenest vision can’t define; So perfect is the blending. The far, fir trees that cover The brownish hills with needles green and gold, The arching elms o’erhead, vinegrown and old, Repictured are Beneath me far, Where not a ripple moves to mar Shades underneath, or over. Mine is the undertone; The beauty, strength, and power of the land Will never stir or bend at my command; But all the shade Is marred or made, If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone. O! pathless world of seeming! O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal Is more my own than ever was the real. For others Fame And Love’s red flame, And yellow gold: I only claim The shadows and the dreaming. |
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