I know a quiet vale where faint winds blow
The silver poplar branches all awry,
And ne’er another sound comes drifting by
Save where the stream’s cool waters softly flow;
Wild roses riot there and violets throw
Their perfume recklessly, the while on high
Great snowy clouds pillow the smiling sky
And cast frail shadows on the grass below.
All is the same, the summer stillness dreams
In idleness across the sunny leas,
Until for very drowsiness it seems
The wind has gone to sleep within the trees—
Yet we once laughed at what the years might bring,
And now I am alone, remembering.