  When the fir-tree dreams in the drowsy haze Of the motionless August hour; When even the eager-leafed aspen droops, And asleep is the bird in its bower; Wakeful alone sends the waterfall then Its mellow, melodious hum, Wafting a coolness where all is heat, And music where all is dumb. In the bloomy May, when the buoyant day Is breezy and sunny and glad; When the lithe boughs sweep and the swift brooks leap, And the birds sing and soar as if mad; Amid this orchestral blithesomeness, This pÆan of Spring-time’s reign, The waterfall’s bound fills the scene all round With its blending, exulting strain. In its crannies the hair-stemmed columbine nods, The fern in its sprinkles drips; And the little black dipper all over the bridge Of the spanning pine-tree skips. And the bubbles they toss on the smitten gloss Of the dashing and flashing pool; Where the angler scoops up his wreathed hopple-leaf cup, And the trout poises deep in the cool. |
|
