Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I look’d on the mountains—a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array:
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I look’d on the peasant’s lowly cot—
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell,