STRAYING, musing, singing, dreaming, 'Neath the leafy banners streaming, Fleck'd with golden sunbeams gleaming Through the woodland's dun; On lone Calder's banks reclining, Where the brier and hazel, twining, Screen me from the fervid shining Of the noontide sun. Sweet thy soft melodious gushing, Sylvan stream! and sweet the hushing Of the breeze, with soft breath pushing Wide the opening flowers; Pendant honeysuckles flinging Fragrance round; the woodbine clinging Round the elm; bird-music ringing In thy birchen bowers. Through thy waters—rippling, dancing, Where the minnow shoals are glancing— Slow I wade, and, still advancing, Reach the further shore; Lightly bounding o'er the shingles, Through my limbs the warm blood tingles; With the birds my wild song mingles, Trilling o'er and o'er. Up the dell, all panting, glowing, Where the foxgloves tall are growing, Where the wild brier-roses, blowing, Scent the summer air; Where the weeping willow stoopeth, Where the silver runnel scoopeth Out her bed; where hyacinth droopeth, Slender, meek, and fair. Where the silver birch is waving, Where the crystal well-spring laving, Busy bees their treasures saving, Stands a lonely cot, Bower'd in jessamine and roses; Flora there her wealth discloses, Freely there her charms exposes, On that lovely spot. From the flower-wreathed porch comes winging, Like a bird, dear Dora, singing, To my side so fondly clinging— Ah, how soon to part! Fair, pale rose! too early blowing! Child of beauty, bright, and glowing! Sweetest thoughts and fancies flowing Ever from her heart. Summers six, with shade and shining, Passed, when, without plaint or pining, On her couch of death reclining, Cousin Dora lay. Short we had her in possession, Yet she has fulfilled her mission; Called to Heaven, we bow submission— She has passed away! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SAILOR TO HIS PARROT by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES CHILD AND MOTHER by EUGENE FIELD SUMMER STORM by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND by GEORGE HENRY BOKER ON HIS WIFE, AN EPITAPH by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |