But, ah, you all come back,—come dreaming back!”
At last I broke the silence: “See,” I said
To Gilbert, “see how fair our dear old stream!
How calm, beneath the shadow of these piers,
It eddies in and out, and cools itself
In slumberous ripples whispering repose.”
But he made answer: “Yes, this August day
The wave is summer-charmed, the fields are hazed;
But in the callow Spring, when Easter winds
Are on us, laden with rain, these fickle streams—