Along The Stream

Where the violet shadows brood Under cottonwoods and beeches, Through whose leaves the restless reaches Of the river glance, I’ve stood, While the red-bird and the thrush Set to song the morning hush.

There,--when wakening woods encroach On the shadowy winding waters, And the bluets, April’s daughters, At the darling Spring’s approach, Star their myriads through the trees,-- All the land is one with peace.

Under some imposing cliff, That, with bush and tree and boulder, Thrusts a gray, gigantic shoulder O’er the stream, I’ve oared a skiff, While great clouds of iceberg hue Lounged along the noonday blue.

There,--when harvest heights impend Over shores of rippling summer, And to greet the fair new-comer,-- June,--the wildrose thickets bend In a million blossoms dressed,-- All the land is one with rest.

On some rock, where gaunt the oak Reddens and the sombre cedar Darkens, like a sachem leader, I have lain and watched the smoke Of the steamboat, far-away, Trailed along the dying day.

There,--when margin waves reflect Autumn colors, gay and sober, And the Indian-girl, October, Wampum-like in berries decked, Leans above the leaf-strewn streams,-- All the land is one with dreams.

Through the bottoms where,--out-tossed By the wind’s wild hands,--ashiver Bend the willows o’er the river, I have walked in sleet and frost, While beneath the cold round moon, Frozen, gleamed the long lagoon.

There,--when leafless woods uplift Spectral arms the storm-blasts splinter, And the hoary trapper, Winter, Builds his camp of ice and drift, With his snow-pelts furred and shod,-- All the land is one with God.