On A Lake

Sweet in the rushes The reed-singers make A music that hushes The life of the lake; The leaves are dumb, And the tides are still, And no calls come From the flocks on the hill.

Forgotten now Are nightingales, And on his bough The linnet fails,-- Midway the mere My mirrored boat Shall rest and hear A slenderer note.

Though, heart, you measure But one proud rhyme, You build a treasure Confounding time-- Sweet in the rushes The reed-singers make A music that hushes The life of the lake.