And beats the water to foam and spray;
Its broken buckets dipping along
In ill marked time to the thrush’s song.
Never was music softer nor tune
SOMETIMES HE SITS IN THE GLOAMING STILL
ON THE LEANING BIRCH BESIDE THE MILL:
Sweeter than his in the afternoon
When the lowering sun shines slanting across
The rugged old pines, and the rocks, and moss.