When I would sing of crooked streams and fields, On, on from me they stretch too far and wide, And at their look my song all powerless yields, And down the river bears me with its tide; Amid the fields I am a child again, The spots that then I loved I love the more, My fingers drop the strangely-scrawling pen, And I remember nought but nature's lore; I plunge me in the river's cooling wave, Or on the embroidered bank admiring lean, Now some endangered insect life to save, Now watch the pictured flowers and grasses green; Forever playing where a boy I played, By hill and grove, by field and stream delayed. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHERE GO THE BOATS? by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE OPTIMIST AND THE PESSIMIST; A DIALOGUE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE OLD GHOST by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THANKSGIVING - 1937 by JOSIE CRAIG BERRY THE INDIAN DANCER by ANNA TILLMAN BOYD THE RAKE'S PROGRESS by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB A PROTEST by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH CABIN-KID by EDOUARD JOACHIM CORBIERE IN IMITATION OF A SONG IN THE PLAY OF ROLLO by CHARLES COTTON |