It runs like a stream with a musical waste,
And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep.
’Tis not deep as a river, but who’d have it deep?…
No volume I know to read under a tree
More truly delicious than his À l’Abri,
With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book,
Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook;
With June coming softly your shoulder to look over,
Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over,
And Nature to criticise still as you read—