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But the crowfoot-bloom still trails its gold Along the edges of the oak-wood old; And there, where spreads the pond, still white are seen The lilies islanded between The pads’ round archipelagoes of green; The jade-dark pads that pave The water’s wrinkled wave; In which the vireo and the sparrow lave Their fluttered breasts and wings, Preening their backs, with many twitterings, With necks the moisture streaks; Then dipping deep their beaks, To which the beaded coolness clings, They bend their mellow throats And let the freshness trickle into notes.

And now you hear The red-capped woodpecker rap near; And now that acrobat, The yellow-breasted chat, Calls high and clear, Chuckling his grotesque music from Some bough that he hath clomb. And now, and now, Upon another bough, Hark how the honey-throated thrush Scatters the forest’s listening hush With notes of limpid harmony, Taking the woods with witchery-- Or is ’t a spirit, none can see. Hid in the top of some old tree, Who, in his house of leaves, of haunted green, Keeps trying, silver-sweet, his sunbeam flute serene?