The Canoe Speaks
On the great streams the ships may go About men's business to and fro. But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep On crystal waters ankle-deep: I, whose diminutive design, Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, Is fashioned on so frail a mould, A hand may launch, a hand withhold: I, rather, with the leaping trout Wind, among lilies, in and out; I, the unnamed, inviolate, Green, rustic rivers, navigate; My dripping paddle scarcely shakes The berry in the bramble-brakes; Still forth on my green way I wend Beside the cottage garden-end; And by the nested angler fare, And take the lovers unaware. By willow wood and water-wheel Speedily fleets my touching keel; By all retired and shady spots Where prosper dim forget-me-nots; By meadows where at afternoon The growing maidens tropp in June To loose their girldes on the grass. Ah! speedier than before the glass The backward toilet goes; and swift As swallows quiver, robe and shift, And the rough country stockings lie Around each young divinity When, following the recondite brook, Sudden upon this scene I look. And light with unfamiliar face On chaste Diana's bathing-place, Loud ring the hills about and all The shallows are abandoned.
English Poetry - http://www.eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail email@example.com