Far above us where a jayScreams his matins to the day,Capped with gold and amethyst,Like a vapor from the forgeOf a giant somewhere hid,Out of hearing of the clangOf his hammer, skirts of mistSlowly up the woody gorgeLift and hang.
Softly as a cloud we go,Sky above and sky below,Down the river; and the dipOf the paddles scarcely breaks,With the little silvery dripOf the water as it shakesFrom the blades, the crystal deepOf the silence of the morn,Of the forest yet asleep;And the river reaches borneIn a mirror, purple gray,Sheer awayTo the misty line of light,Where the forest and the streamIn the shadow meet and plight,Like a dream.
From amid a stretch of reeds,Where the lazy river sucksAll the water as it bleedsFrom a little curling creek,And the muskrats peer and sneakIn around the sunken wrecksOf a tree that swept the skiesLong ago,On a sudden seven ducksWith a splashy rustle rise,Stretching out their seven necks,One before, and two behind,And the others all arow,And as steady as the windWith a swivelling whistle go,Through the purple shadow led,Till we only hear their whirIn behind a rocky spur,Just ahead.
