I know a quiet vale where faint winds blow

The silver poplar branches all awry,

And ne’er another sound comes drifting by

Save where the stream’s cool waters softly flow;

Wild roses riot there and violets throw

Their perfume recklessly, the while on high

Great snowy clouds pillow the smiling sky

And cast frail shadows on the grass below.

All is the same, the summer stillness dreams

In idleness across the sunny leas,

Until for very drowsiness it seems

The wind has gone to sleep within the trees—

Yet we once laughed at what the years might bring,

And now I am alone, remembering.