Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook,
Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,