The dragon-flies flash and they quiver
To somnolent humming of bees!
But here is a spot of the past time—
I'm many a mile from the Weir—
I'll rest and think over the last time
I ventured to meditate here.
O, chesnuts are shady, and golden are sheaves,
And sweet is the exquisite music of leaves!
I pause in this quaint little harbour,
Quite out of the swirl of the stream;