IT'S oh, but I'm dreaming Of grey water streaming, Great rivers that go gleaming Where brown the heather blows, Ere May's southern graces Rub out the last white traces From high and mountain places Of stubborn, storm-packed snows! The chill wind that searches The low-lying birches, The old red grouse that perches And swaggers in the sun; I'm fain for its blowing, I'm restless for his crowing, And it's I that would be going Where the spring salmon run! And oh, were they bulking Bright silver, or sulking— In the snow-broth a-skulking, I would care not at all, I'd hear the falls ringing, I'd see the pine-tops swinging In a wind that's filled with singing When the green plover call! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL by PAUL VERLAINE THE BATTLEFIELD by EMILY DICKINSON A LOVE LETTER by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE FIRST AND THE LAST by HORATIO (HORATIUS) BONAR |