WHEN the fir-tree dreams in the drowsy haze
Of the motionless August hour;
When even the eager-leafed aspen droops,
And asleep is the bird in its bower;
Wakeful alone sends the waterfall then
Its mellow, melodious hum,
Wafting a coolness where all is heat,
And music where all is dumb.
In the bloomy May, when the buoyant day
Is breezy and sunny and glad;
When the lithe boughs sweep and the swift brooks leap,
And the birds sing and soar as if mad;
Amid this orchestral blithesomeness,
This pæan of Spring-time’s reign,
The waterfall’s bound fills the scene all round
With its blending, exulting strain.
In its crannies the hair-stemmed columbine nods,
The fern in its sprinkles drips;
And the little black dipper all over the bridge
Of the spanning pine-tree skips.
And the bubbles they toss on the smitten gloss
Of the dashing and flashing pool;
Where the angler scoops up his wreathed hopple-leaf cup,
And the trout poises deep in the cool.