O, the scent of the new-mown hay!
The oars drip in the mystic shy light,
O, the charm of the dying day!
While fading flecks of bright opalescence
But faintly dapple a saffron sky,
The stream flows on with superb quiescence,
The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh.
Drifting down in the sweet still weather,
O, the fragrance of fair July!
Love, my Love, when we drift together,