On the great streams the ships may go About men's business to and fro.
But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep On crystal waters ankle-deep:
I, whose diminutive design, Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, Is fashioned on so frail a mould, A hand may launch, a hand withhold:
I, rather, with the leaping trout Wind, among lilies, in and out;
I, the unnamed, inviolate, Green, rustic rivers, navigate;
My dipping paddle scarcely shakes The berry in the bramble-brakes;
Still forth on my green way I wend Beside the cottage garden-end;
And by the nested angler fare, And take the lovers unaware.
By willow wood and water-wheel Speedily fleets my touching keel;
By all retired and shady spots Where prosper dim forget-me-nots;
By meadows where at afternoon The growing maidens troop in June To loose their girdles on the grass.
Ah! speedier than before the glass The backward toilet goes; and swift As swallows quiver, robe and shift And the rough country stockings lie Around each young divinity.
When, following the recondite brook, Sudden upon this scene I look, And light with unfamiliar face On chaste Diana's bathing-place, Loud ring the hills about and all The shallows are abandoned. . . .
