  I lean upon the bridge’s rail, In idle joy, and gazing down, So watch the frothy bubbles sail, And bits of tangled grasses trail Along the current’s tawny brown. The river flows at full to-day; And though within the tide it pours There grow no mocking sycamores, Nor any crystal hints betray The spicewood thickets, nor the pale Soft willow wands of pearly gray, Whose interwoven mazes veil The fretted banks, yet here and there, Adown some swirling eddy, where A delving sunbeam shines, What mines Of gleaming, streaming, liquid gold The waters hold! And so, by rapid currents rolled In billowy swells that break and chime In riotous tumult uncontrolled, The March flood plashes past the pier; But through its sweeping tones, I hear The burden of the April time; And throbbing like a glad refrain, Now far, now full, now far again, The freshened breeze Blows gaily, bringing pure and clear The fitful, tinkling cadences. But listen! faint, from out the sheer Deep borders of the morning sky, Slips down the distance-softened cry Of shy wild geese that northward fly; It vibrates nearer, and more near, —And see! There! wheeling into sight, Far as the vision may descry. A level-winged advancing “V,” They keep their swift, unswerving flight. North, north, beyond that scudding fleece Of tiny clouds, like wilder geese, That join their ranks, and journey, too, On,—on,—into the farthest blue. Then, from the boundless space above, I drop my dazzled eyes to view The soft field-grass and meadow-rue, The restful, brown earth, that I love. A trick of blinding sun, maybe, That halo on the hills may prove— And yet, they are so dear to me, The golden glory that they wear Is like none other anywhere, And, in my heart, I hold it true. Could wander up the river there, And see aught otherwise than I? Or could deny That yonder little glimpse is fair? The slender point of jutting land Where, faintly burgeoning anew With rounds of downy buds, there stand A score of water-willow trees In clustered tufts, and twinkling through, Across the stream, beside of these, A line of shining yellow light; And half in sight, And hidden half, upon the right, By wild red-sumac shrubberies, A windmill, rising tall and white, Slow turning in the breeze. And then beyond—but how express, What word in any tongue conveys The depth of dreamy tenderness That laps, and wraps, and overlays The far blue hills, And spills and fills The valleys with pale purple haze? O, what sweet syllables confess The glad heart-happiness that plays Through all my pulses as I gaze, And drink the beauty, past all praise— The old, immortal blessedness Of April days!
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