Woods in the robes of summer dressed—
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river’s breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight;—
The woods are but a week away!
Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I’ve many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!
TO THE SUN
(Variations on a theme by Gilbert.)
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Across the realms of space
Shine on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though my collar is a wreck,
And hangs a rag about my neck?
What though at food I can but peck?
Never you mind!
Shine on!
Shine on, Old Top, shine on!
Through leagues of lifeless air
Shine on!
It’s true I’ve no more shirts to wear,
My underwear is soaked, ’tis true,
My gullet is a redhot flue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
Never you mind!
Shine on! [It shines on.]