BELOW THE WEIR.
Beyond the punt the swallows go
Like blue-black arrows to and fro,
Now stooping where the rushes grow,
Now flashing o'er a shallow;
And overhead in blue and white
High Spring and Summer hold delight;
"All right!" the black-cap calls, "All right!"
His mate says from the sallow.
O dancing stream, O diamond day,
O charm of lilac-time and May.
O whispering meadows green and gay,
O fair things past believing!
Could but the world stand still, stand still
When over wood and stream and hill
This morn's eternal miracle
The rosy Hours are weaving!
Eternal, for I like to think
That mayflowers, crimson, white and pink,
When I am dust the boughs shall prink,
On days to live and die for;
That sun and cloud, as now, shall veer,
And streams run tumbling off the weir,
Where still the mottled trout rolls clear
For other men to try for.
I like to think, when I shall go
To this essential dust, that so
I yet may share in flowers that blow,
And with such brave sights mingle,
If tossed by summer breeze on high
I'm carried where the cuckoos cry
And dropped beside old Thames to lie
A sand-grain on a shingle.
Meanwhile the swallows flash and skim
Like blue-black arrows notched and trim,
And splendid kingcups lift a brim
Of gold to king or peasant,
And 'neath a sky of blue and white
High Spring with Summer weaves delight;
"All right!" the black-cap calls, "all right!"
And life is very pleasant.