A stream of tender gladness,Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies ;Of warm midsummer air that lightly liesIn mystic rings,Where softly swingsThe music of a thousand wingsThat almost tones to sadness.
Midway 'twixt earth and heaven,A bubble in the pearly air I seemTo float upon the sapphire floor, a dreamOf clouds of snow,Above, below,Drift with my drifting, dim and slow,As twilight drifts to even.
The little fern-leaf, bendingUpon the brink, its green reflection greets,And kisses soft the shadow that it meetsWith touch so fine,The border lineThe keenest vision can't define ;So perfect is the blending.
The far, fir trees that coverThe brownish hills with needles green and gold,The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old,Repictured areBeneath me far,Where not a ripple moves to marShades underneath, or over.
Mine is the undertone ;The beauty, strength, and power of the landWill never stir or bend at my command ;But all the shadeIs marred or made,If I but dip my paddle blade ;And it is mine alone.
O! pathless world of seeming!O! pathless life of mine whose deep idealIs more my own than ever was the real.For others FameAnd Love's red flame,And yellow gold : I only claimThe shadows and the dreaming.
