Vii

Where the old Kentucky wound Through the land,--its stream between Hills of primitive forest green,-- Like a goodly belt around Giant breasts of grandeur; with Many an unknown Indian myth, On the boat we steamed. The land Like an hospitable hand Welcomed us. Alone we sat On the under-deck, and saw Farm-house and plantation draw Near and vanish. 'Neath your hat Your young eyes laughed; and your hair, Blown about them by the air Of our passage, clung and curled. Music, and the summer moon; And the hills' great shadows hewn Out of silence; and the tune Of the whistle, when we whirled Round a moonlit bend in sight of Some lone landing heaped with hay Or tobacco; where the light of One dim, solitary lamp Signaled through the evening's damp: Then a bell; and, dusky gray, Shuffling figures on the shore With the cable; rugged forms On the gang-plank; backs and arms With their cargo bending o'er; And the burly mate before. Then an iron bell, and puff Of escaping steam; and out Where the stream is wheel-whipped rough; Music, and a parting shout From the shore; the pilot's bell Beating on the deck below; Then the steady, quivering, slow, Smooth advance again. Until Twinkling lights beyond us tell Of a lock or little town Clasped between a hill and hill, Where the bluegrass fields slope down.-- So we went. That summer-time Lingers with me like a rhyme Learned for dreamy beauty of Its old-fashioned faith and love, In some musing moment; sith Heart-associated with Joy that moments quiet bore, And forgotten nevermore.