By The River
Through the rustling river grasses
Warm and sweet the young wind passes.
Blowing shyly soft caresses
To their dewy emerald tresses.
All along the silver sands
Little ripples joining hands,
Dance a quaint fantastic measure.
Making liquid sounds of pleasure.
While away beyond the weir
Calls the cuckoo loud and clear,
Something mystic and remote,
Ringing in his fairy note.
How I wish that I were small,
Swinging on the rushes tall,
Just a humble happy thing.
Born to hve a while in Spring !
On The Potomac River U.S.A.
At close of June's most burning day,
We took a ship and sailed away :
In mid-Potomac stream sailed we.
To Old Point Comfort by the sea.
The heavy hanging air of dusk
Was thick with scent of fainting musk.
And through the tired willow trees
Stirred never sound or breath of breeze.
So still it was, that from afar
We seemed to hear a falling star,
And every drop we heard, that dript
From off the paddle as it dipped.
The fireflies lit their yellow lamps.
And danced along the marshy damps ;
They skimmed and shot, and skimmed again.
While beetles droned a dance-refrain.
The old ship pushed the mists apart,
And crawled along with throbbing heart,
Pausing from time to time for breath
Beside some jetty, still as death.
The moon rose up all reddish gold.
And lit the swirhng misty fold
Of fog along the river bank,
Where grew the creepers dark and rank.
Sometimes the lonely 'look-out' cried
'All's well': the water swished and sighed
An endless and protesting song,
As stealthily we crept along.
Until at last the wind blew free.
Where the Potomac met the sea ;
And not so very far away
The shores of Old Point Comfort lay.
