That they never can pass round the great sweeping bend
But the dance is recalled, and they think of the end
That so suddenly came to the cherished old place;
They note the tall trees as its last lingering trace—
Their long branches waving as if in a trance
From a waltz they had caught on the night of the dance.
There often the town folks, still curious, stray
To look o’er the place on a summery day,
Recounting the story when nearing the sight,
And some one will tell of the dance of that night,