| A little brown sparrow came tripping Across the green grass at my feet; A kingfisher poised, and was peering Where current and calm water meet; |
| The clouds hung in passionless clusters Above the green hills of the south; A bobolink fluttered to leeward With a twinkle of bells in its mouth. |
| Ah, the morning was silver with glory As I lay by my tent on the shore; And the soft air was drunken with odours, And my soul lifted up to adore. |
| Is there wonder I took me to dreaming Of the gardens of Greece and old Rome, Of the fair watered meadows of Ida, And the hills where the gods made their home? |
| Of the Argonauts sung to by Sirens, Of Andromache, Helen of Troy, Of Proserpine, Iphigenia, And the Fates that build up and destroy? |
| Of the phantom isle, green Theresea, And the Naiads and Dryads that give To the soul of the poet, the dreamer, The visions of fancy that live |
| In the lives and the language of mortals Unconscious, but sure as the sea, And that make for great losses repayment To wandering singers like me? |
| But a little brown sparrow came tripping Across the green grass at my feet; And a kingfisher poised, and was peering Where current and calm water meet; |
| And Alice, sweet Alice, my neighbour, Stands musing beneath the pine tree; And her look says—“I have a lover Who sails on the turbulent sea: |
| Does he dream as I dream night and daytime Of a face that is tender and true; Will he come to me e’en as he left me?” Yes, Alice, sweet Alice, for you, |
| Is the sunlight, and not the drear shadow, The gentle and fortunate peace: But he who thus revels in rhyming Has shadows that never shall cease. |