By The River

THROUGH the rustling river grasses Warm and sweet the young wind passes, Blowing shyly soft caresses To their dewy emerald tresses.

All along the silver sands Little ripples joining hands, Dance a quaint fantastic measure, Making liquid sounds of pleasure.

While away beyond the weir Calls the cuckoo loud and clear, Something mystic and remote, Ringing in his fairy note.

How I wish that I were small, Swinging on the rushes tall, Just a humble happy thing, Born to live a while in Spring!